


Collateral damage

by silveriris



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Fade Shenanigans, Fantastic Racism, Gen, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, M/M, Magekiller spoilers, Mentions of Character Death, Minor Character(s), Not Canon Compliant, POV Multiple, Past Abuse, Politics, Post Dragon Age Inquisition, Red Lyrium, Slavery, Slow Burn, Swearing, Unfinished, references to Paper and Steel, references to Paying the Ferryman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-07-19 20:03:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 30
Words: 85,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7375546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silveriris/pseuds/silveriris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Servis agrees to work for the Inquisition to save his life. Once he’s free, he wishes to get as far from Skyhold as possible, but a letter he receives drastically changes his plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Crassius Servis considers himself lucky.

Perhaps he’s not the wisest or the most talented mage in Tevinter but like a cat he always lands on his feet, almost completely unscratched. When he pleaded for his life, asking Inquisitor Lavellan to spare him, he knew his chances were very low.  But he, Crassius Servis of Vyrantium, could be useful. He’d get them whatever they desire; precious artifacts? Orlesian teacups? Antivan fabrics? No problem at all. He would be more than happy to help. He never truly believed in the Elder One anyway but that wasn’t something he can admit in front of his fellow Tevinters, right?

The Inquisition crushed their enemies without ever looking back, yet the Inquisitor decided that Servis deserved to live, at least a little bit longer. So he can be useful for the Inquisition, of course. They made him talk, didn’t really have to use any fancy torture techniques. In fact, once he started talking it was difficult to silence him. Servis values his contacts but more importantly he values his life. So when the Inquisition’s spymaster, the woman called Nightingale, asked him questions, he answered. Half–truths are better than lies. And technically he didn’t _lie_ to her, just conveniently forgot about certain details.

He can leave Skyhold, hoping he’ll never have to come back to this place. It’s around the time Servis reaches Halamshiral when he receives a letter.

Contacting his associates is easy. He’s but a smuggler, not someone _important_ , and he has pockets full of coin, so he finds a place where he can rest and prepare for a longer journey without anyone bothering him. He’s pretty sure the Inquisition didn’t send agents after him. He’s supposed to be working for them, after all. So all things considered, all Servis wants from life now is to go back home. That Venatori business was a waste of time. As soon as he sets foot in Tevinter, the Inquisition won’t be able to touch him. Besides, why would they bother chasing someone like him across Thedas when they are more important matters to attend? Servis likes being insignificant, it makes his job easier, especially in situations like this one.

He wants to rest, talk to merchants, drink Orlesian wine, eat their smelly cheese, and relax. For a moment he truly enjoys being a nobody.

But when he returns to his room late at night, there’s a letter waiting on his bed. He looks around, suspicious, feeling his heart racing. All that wine he drank makes him bold, sparks of magic form in his hands when for one long second he expects Antivan assassins coming to get him.

Nothing happens. Servis lets out a sigh, feeling like a fool. Obviously he’s not important enough for someone to hire assassins to kill him. Especially Antivan assassins. They are extremely expensive, everyone knows that.

The letter is the only thing that changed since he left. Before picking it up, he hits it with a simple spell. Even when he’s drunk he’s cautious enough to check if it’s just an ordinary piece of paper or a poisoned trap created to kill him.

He doesn’t know it yet, but it’s a beginning of something that will change his life forever. He always trusts his instincts, and this time they are urging him to tear the paper open and read.

The letter Servis receives is like a polite invitation. Even though no one knows he’s here, someone addressed him by his full name, _Crassius Servis of Vyrantium_ , written in a neat handwriting. He breaks the seal he doesn’t recognize; the sign on the wax looks like a styled symbol of Tevinter, two dragons. His eyes quickly scan the contents of the letter which is short and mysterious. But what interests him more is the name at the bottom of the page. He expected an anonymous letter, a threat perhaps (but why? He’s harmless like a fly!). Servis reads it all again, searching for every hidden meaning, and when he’s done he repeats the name of the person who wrote it, as if it was a riddle.

_Lady Calpernia_

He could swear he’s heard this name before. For some reason he thinks of history lessons he had to attend when he was younger. Is that some queen’s name?

The first thing that comes to his mind is that the author knows he’s heading to Lydes. Because it’s an awful coincidence otherwise, since she suggests meeting in that place. It also seems like this _Lady Calpernia_ knows him well. She knew what exact sum to offer to make him interested enough to even consider her proposition.

Despite the prospect of getting so much coin, something doesn’t feel quite right. Servis wrinkles his nose; this smells like more Venatori problems. Although he so blatantly lied to the Inquisitor about almost everything, he was telling the truth when he said he was never a devoted member of that sect. Between Alexius with his time travel nonsense, and Erimond with his strange obsession with the Elder One, Servis was probably the only sane member of the Venatori. Let the _important people_ fight and conquer, he was pretty glad with his assignment that included just enough gold and treasures to make him happy.

But then the Inquisitor ruined everything. And now he’s getting a letter from some mysterious woman. Servis lets out another sigh. In the good old days he could simply avoid complicated plots the rest of Tevinter loves so much. His decision to join the Venatori wasn’t the smartest move, and now he has to face the consequences.

No matter how he complains about his situation, Servis can’t help but feel intrigued. There’s someone who considers him important. Maybe this is a good opportunity to improve his life. Servis looks through the window at the night sky and wonders if meeting this woman won’t end in his death.

He’s done so many foolish things in his life, what’s one more going to change?

 

* * *

 

Lady Calpernia remains a mystery to him. And to everyone else apparently because it seems that no one, _absolutely no one,_ knows her. Sure, he didn’t have much time for his little research, but he did what he could. Before he left for Lydes, Servis asked, begged and bribed, spending quite a lot of coin to make his contacts talk about the Venatori and a woman called Calpernia. What he got from one of them was a book on Tevinter history. As if he needed some old book!

It’s like Lady Calpernia doesn’t exist. Perhaps she’s just a name on the paper, and he’s falling into a trap. He gives his possessions a solemn look. If all he has can fit everything he owns in two bags, then he really doesn’t have much to lose.

But Servis quite likes his life, so when he walks into a tavern in which he’s supposed to meet this mysterious woman, something twists anxiously in his gut. He wipes sweat from his face, finds a table by the window, and glances around.

It’s early afternoon, the place is still empty, real life begins at night. There’s a man sleeping in the corner, dirty hat is covering his face. His snoring is loud enough to irritate. Servis wrinkles his nose. _Typical southerner_.

He orders a relatively cheap bottle of wine. His Orlesian sounds odd, the waitress gives him an amused look. He feels heat on his face, vaguely wondering if his limited knowledge of this language won’t get him in trouble. In moments like this he misses his homeland terribly.

Servis waits. After an hour the wine doesn’t get any better. It gets worse, in fact, so he orders a stew. He heard the waitress recommending it to another client, praising it so highly that one could think it’s the best thing Orlais has to offer.

Seeing the colour of the substance he is given, Servis loses all hope. He needs to leave this barbaric country, or else he’ll surely die. He glances at the door every time someone enters the tavern. There’s no one _Tevinter_ in sight, only Orlesians speaking so quickly in their odd language Servis doesn’t care to listen to their annoying chatter.

Then he notices someone looking at him, and Servis moves his eyes to a man in a rugged cloak. He approaches the mage without hesitation. The stranger is tall like one of those savage Qunari; it means he’s not an assassin. Assassins are considerably shorter, even kids know that. But there’s something _ominous_ about this man that makes Servis uneasy.

“ _Bonum vesper, Crassius Servis_ ,” the giant says, dark eyes glaring coldly.

Although the voice speaks perfect Tevene, it’s also so deep Servis can’t force himself to reply. This is not how he imagined the last surviving leader of the Venatori. The person who speaks to him looks more like a thug one meets in a dark alley after the sunset, like someone ready to kill for a bag of coins. Not to mentions the rags the stranger’s wearing are torn in places, dirty, and certainly not Tevinter.

“I’m sorry,” he stammers in common, hiding his trembling hands under the table. “I think you confused me with someone else.”

_Go away_ , he pleads with his eyes. He’s good at looking like a sad little puppy if he needs to; maybe this creature takes pity on him and leaves without saying anything else.

To his horror, the person not only stays, but sits down by his table.

“Don’t be a fool, Servis. We both know why you’re here.”

The stranger narrows his eyes at him. Servis very much regrets he never learned a spell that could make him invisible.

“I’m waiting for someone,” he says, switching to Tevene. “And I intend to wait here for her as long as I have to.”

The man doesn’t reply; instead he reaches to his pocket. For a second Servis is sure the man’s grabbing a knife, and he finds it difficult to breathe. Being stabbed to death in a lowly Orlesian tavern sounds terrible.

What the stranger puts on the table is not a blade, but a piece of paper with a Tevinter stamp,  same like the one on the letter Servis received before.

“Come with me,” the man stands up, giving Servis a look. “She wants to speak with you. If you care about the Venatori, you will accept her offer.”

He leaves Servis utterly confused. Hopefully no Inquisition agents hid in the shadows to witness this odd encounter. Servis stares at the door, finally able to breath normally again, then his eyes look at the piece of paper.

He doesn’t particularly care about the Venatori. He doesn’t really care about anything other than going back home where he can live in peace. This is certainly not what this man would like to hear.

On the other hand, Lady Calpernia _chose_ him. If the Inquisition finds out about this, they’re going to hang him on the nearest tree for treason. But the Venatori are _Tevinter_. As much as his homeland irritates him at times, working with Tevinters is always better than dealing with the rest of the world that doesn’t understand his Tevinter ideals at all.

It only takes him a minute to consider his options. Servis grabs the piece of paper, and runs after the man, nearly tripping over his own feet. Everything around him is so terribly Orlesian, he clings to the one person who offers him a way of escape.

The man looks over his shoulder at the smuggler, barely acknowledging his presence. _Not a talkative type, I see_ , Servis thinks as they walk through the streets of Lydes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Dragon Age is not mine.
> 
> A/N: I don't know if I'm writing Servis *right* because there's so little about him in DAI. Hopefully you'll find my interpretation of this character interesting enough to continue reading.  
> This story is unbeta'd. English isn't my first language, so I apologise for any mistakes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Servis meets the last remaining leader of the Venatori.

Judging by the splendid houses around them, the man leads him to the _good_ part of Lydes. Maybe it means he’ll be welcomed properly, feast and everything. Servis doesn’t want to set his hopes high, but it sure would be nice if he finally had a decent meal. Once he’s back in Tevinter he’s going to tell everyone the truth about Orlais, especially about Orlesian food. Now, however, he keeps walking behind his silent companion.

Just when Servis begins to wonder what’s the point of asking him to meet in a tavern if they’re going to another place, the man stops in front of a gate. He opens it, gesturing at Servis to get inside.

“I didn’t know Lady Calpernia owns an estate in Lydes.”

“She doesn’t,” is the brute’s gruff response.

“Then why – ”

“Stop talking,” he barks. Something in his tone of voice makes Servis shut his mouth in fear he may be silenced forever if he keeps talking.

They get inside the house through the back door. There’s no feast prepared to welcome him, and the place looks empty as if the owner was getting ready to leave. They are in a kitchen with barely any signs showing that someone is actually living in this house. Seeing a cold stove Servis feels a pang of disappointment. If he stays in Orlais he’ll most likely starve to death.

He meets another stranger, this time a girl. Her curly red hair looks like a halo of flames around her head. Servis glances at her, half expecting she’s Lady Calpernia. But the girl won’t even look at him, her head slightly bowed. Perhaps this is nothing but some elaborate joke that ends in him being stabbed to death by the Inquisition’s agents.

“She’ll take you to Lady Calpernia,” the Tevinter man says. “If you try anything, I’ll kill you.”

There’s so much certainty in his voice Servis prays to every god he knows to help him.

“Come,” the girl says.

There’s a scar on her cheek, from her eye to the corner of her jaw. It looks like an old wound that never healed properly. She’s pretty, though the way she bows her head and her slightly hunched shoulders suggest she is a servant. Or perhaps a slave, although Servis isn’t sure what Orlesians think about keeping slaves. He tried to speak about the matter with a Marcher once; it was a disaster.

“May I ask who’s the owner of this house?” Servis asks with a polite smile. Trying to have a conversation is always better than just standing in silence.

“Master Lyrio,” she says, her voice flat. She’s looking at some unspecified point on the floor.

“Will he join us?”

“Master Lyrio is dead.”

Somehow her emotionless voice makes this statement even more ominous. Servis wonders if she was the one who killed him. She’s not carrying a weapon, so he should be safe for now. But the idea of sleeping in this house makes him worried if he’s going to leave the place still breathing.

“I’m sorry to hear that..?” he suggests in a weak voice.

The girl frowns, lips twisting in an ugly snarl, as if he said something greatly offensive.

“No need to be sorry. He deserved it.”

When she looks up there’s so much anger in her pretty eyes Servis takes a step back.

“He bought me when I was twelve. He did this to me,” she points at her face. “And to every other girl that failed to please him. I was his whore.”

There’s no trace of shame in her voice, no embarrassment. Only hate so raw it leaves Servis paralysed.

“Don’t feel sorry for that piece of shit. He finally got what he deserved.”

Servis can only stare, frightened but also cursing himself for trying to talk to the girl. He should stop talking to people. It seems like every times he opens his mouth something bad happens. He tried to reason with the Inquisitor, and now he’s supposedly one of Lavellan’s agents. He agreed to meet Lady Calpernia, and he finds himself in _this_ mess, inside the house of some dead Orlesian noble.

He follows her through the mansion, too terrified to speak. He glances around, noticing empty walls. The place looks more like a tomb than a nobleman’s home.

He nearly has a heart attack when the girl stops to open a door.

“I’ll wait here,” she says. It sounds like a threat.

Servis takes a deep breath, heart pounding in his chest. He peaks inside the room, and then, feeling the girl’s angry glare, he takes three faltering steps. He shouldn’t be so afraid, he has all his magic flowing in his veins. He learned from the best mages in the Imperium. Too bad he feels more like a terrified rabbit, all his Tevinter pride forgotten.

There’s a woman sitting by a table. She looks up at him, her hazel eyes slightly narrowed. She wears a grey robe with a red brooch pinned to the front, and a wide leather belt on her waist. She looks more like a common girl than the last surviving leader of the Venatori. Servis takes another step forward, uncertain if this person is finally the one he’s supposed to meet.

Perhaps he’s not the best mage, but Servis is quite good at feeling magic. It’s convenient to know more or less what’s the skill of his opponent. Magical power in this room is so great it almost makes it difficult to breath. For some reason it makes him think about crackling flames.

Nobody knows about Lady Calpernia. Somehow this makes her more frightening.

“I’m glad you decided to join me,” she speaks in a polite voice.

She invites him to sit by the table. Servis hastily obliges, fearing his smallest gesture may displease her. And that would surely result in his death.

There are so many questions in his mind it’s difficult to concentrate on the right thing to say. So naturally Servis chooses one of the questions he should probably never ask. But the panic rising in his throat pushes the words through his mouth before he can even think.

“I heard master Lyrio met his end. Forgive me, Lady Calpernia, but I have to ask,” he takes a deep breath, his palms are sweating. “Did you kill him?”

She gives him a stunned look.

“He was a slaver,” Calpernia says as if it explained it all.

“Are you going to kill me as well?”

She regards him for a moment, genuine surprise painted on her freckled face. Then her gaze softens, something like amusement glistening in her eyes.

“Are you a slaver, Servis? Do you beat slaves to death? Do you maim women if you get bored with their bodies?”

“No!” he yelps in panic. His magic is distant and cold, while the power radiating from the woman sitting next to him is almost suffocating. “I’m a… I’m a smuggler.”

Crassius Servis is many things. He’s a mage, maybe not the brightest one, but a mage nonetheless. He comes from an old Tevinter family with traditions. He’s a historian as well, and an archaeologist, though many of his expeditions, including the latest one in the Western Approach, brought him nothing but failure.

So when Servis describes himself as a smuggler, because it seems like something Lady Calpernia would be interested in, he may almost hear his father’s disapproving words. But his father’s opinion matters little now, so far away from home, when Servis has to face a very real threat.

Seeing Calpernia _smile_ Servis nearly faints from all this tension. “I’m glad to hear that, because I’m in need of your, ah, talents.”

“Talents?” he repeats. He could swear he’s the least talented person in all Thedas. Because what does he do, really? He digs up stuff that may or may not be valuable, finds old crumbling ruins full of bloodthirsty creatures (including darkspawn; he truly _hates_ the Western Approach), and sometimes finds a shiny trinket for himself.

So _what_ does she need from him…?

As if reading in his thoughts, Calpernia replies, “You have contacts. Ways to obtain information and goods. I heard you’ve been doing quite well in the Western Approach before the Inquisition tracked you down?”

“Not really…” he cringes. No matter how many times he changes his clothes, he always finds _sand_ somewhere. Not to mention that trying to organize a complex expedition when there was a high dragon flying above his head wasn’t the best for his business plans.

“I want to offer an agreement, Servis,” Calpernia’s strong voice brings him back to the present moment. “As you know, the Venatori are mostly gone. The Inquisition nearly wiped us out. I need your help for there’s a long journey ahead of me.”

“Where do you need to go, Lady Calpernia?” he asks in a voice slightly louder than a whisper. Something tells him he’s not going to like the answer.

“To the Temple of Dumat.”

“I’m afraid I know nothing about that place,” he says, feeling sweat dripping down his back.

In a moment of sheer panic he glances at the window, calculating how far he can get before Calpernia’s spells hit him. His tormented mind curses him for never paying much attention to physical exercise. Not that he could ever outrun a well–aimed ball of fire.

“Don’t fret. I already have enough information about that place. I need supplies, mounts for my men. And, most importantly, someone who knows how the Inquisition operates.”

“I know nothing about the Inquisition!” Servis hastily proclaims. The back of his robe feels like a wet sheet.

“You are an agent of the Inquisition, are you not?”

_Fenhedis_. _Of course she knows._

“Well, technically…” he makes a vague hand gesture.

“Instead of running away to the Imperium, stay in the south. Work for the Inquisition. Pretend you want to cooperate.”

Servis opens his mouth, countless questions forming in his thoughts. What she proposes is the exact opposite of what he has in mind. He’d rather return to Vyrantium and live in shame that he chose to run when he had a chance. Perhaps he truly is her one and only option; maybe she can’t ask anyone else for help.

There’s something in Calpernia’s voice, so calm and confident, that makes Servis believe in what she’s saying.

“I need to ask you about something, Servis,” Calpernia continues.

She fold her hands on the table. There’s a scar on her hand, and another one on her wrist. From their shapes he can guess that perhaps something burned her arms, but it seems strange she still has the marks. All Tevinter nobles Servis knows want to be seen as perfect. With so much power and wealth they can hide or remove every imperfection, every smallest flaw. Calpernia, however…

 “How did the Inquisition win? What happened to the Elder One?”

Servis hesitates. It’s difficult to tell what she wants to know. His limited knowledge about the matter doesn’t make it easier.

“After we lost the Western Approach, when magister Erimond failed with the Grey Wardens, the Venatori forces were pretty much gone,” he begins, carefully choosing his words, recalling rumours he heard after getting captured.

His days in Skyhold were tedious, after all there wasn’t much for him to do once they questioned him and locked him in a cell. At times he could hear guards talking. He even tried to start a friendly conversation (because what did he do? He just wanted to make some coin, it wasn’t like he was summoning a demon army!). They threatened to cut off his tongue if he kept asking, so he never spoke to them again. Southerners are impossibly rude sometimes.

What he did hear one day was a loud celebration, singing, dancing and praise for the brave Inquisitor who defeated all evil.

“The Inquisition fought the Red Templars in some elven ruins. And that was pretty much the end. All the Inquisitor needed to do was to defeat Corypheus in the final battle.”

“How well do you know the Red Templars?” Calpernia asks. She seems rather disinterested, but the slight curve of  her lips, a smile she can’t quite hide, tells Servis she knows more than she says.

“I had to work with those… _creatures_ , albeit briefly,” he explains with a slight frown. Why would Corypheus need such monsters is still a mystery to him. “Some of them were more human, but sooner or later they all changed because of that foul substance they had to take.”

“And what happened to the man who commanded the Red Templars?”

“General Samson? He’s dead. I think.” He scratches his large nose, wondering about the answer. “I mean, he was already half dead when the Inquisitor exiled him. Now, that was a surprise because everyone thought she’s going to execute him publicly. To strengthen the morale, or something.”

“But she didn’t?”

Servis shakes his head. “No, Lavellan exiled him. I guess she didn’t want to look at his transformation. I saw what red lyrium does to a person. To be honest, I never want to deal with the Red Templars again.”

Calpernia studies him for a longer while. When he starts to worry if his answer isn’t enough and he failed the test, she gets up.

“Come. I need you to understand who you’re dealing with.”

Servis follows her, utterly confused, through the spacious halls of the Orlesian mansion. He walks right behind her, panic rising in his throat. When Calpernia stops in front of one of many doors, Servis half expects there’s a dragon waiting on the other side. Or something equally terrifying, like one of those red lyrium behemoths spewing that vile substance everywhere they go.

As it turns out, he’s not entirely wrong.

Seeing what Lady Calpernia prepared for him, a small gasp escapes from his lips. His eyes return to her, wide in shock. She has a little smile on her lips. She wanted to check what he knows; that’s why she questioned him, to check whether he tells her the truth or lies.

He turns his head to see if the room hasn’t changed. But no, his eyes don’t fool him. The threat of being stabbed to death by an assassin sent by the Inquisition suddenly seems completely insignificant.

“I must say…” he begins in a weak voice. He clears his throat and starts again. “If you’re able to outsmart the Inquisitor, and do something like _this_ , then…”

He glances at Calpernia. She looks quite pleased. Servis perfectly understands why.

“You have my undivided attention, Lady Calpernia. And all help I can provide.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People demand his death, but Inquisitor Lavellan knows no mercy.

It became pretty clear that the Inquisition didn’t need him. They wanted everything he had; his sword and armour, of course, and information. They would cut him to pieces if they thought it’d help them. They didn’t need him whole. If the Inquisitor could simply open his skull to dig up all the answers she needed, there was no doubt she would do it. Or better, she should have killed him when she defeated him so spectacularly.

She decided to spare him instead. Others saw that as an act of mercy. Lavellan had a particular talent of keeping her vengeful nature well–hidden. When she returned to Skyhold people cheered.

They took his blood, healers and other charlatans examined him. They tore his armour into pieces, asked countless questions about it, about red lyrium, about the Elder One. He told them what they wanted. He could barely speak, his throat dry, guts twisted in a knot because the beast inside him howled with want, deprived of what it needed.

He promised himself he wouldn’t beg. Seeing red crystal on the Arcanist’s desk, so close to him, he heard that sweet song again. Not the howling but a _song_ , the most beautiful song in the world. Pathetic words formed in his mind, echoes from the past when he stood on the streets of Kirkwall at night, hoping someone would take pity on an old fool. Weak and defeated, he was ready to fall on his knees to say and do whatever they wanted.

Then he felt a weight in a pocket of his torn trousers, a small metal thing he desperately wanted to hide from the rest of the world. In a moment of clarity, all hesitation was gone, and he remembered he swore he wouldn’t beg.

Later that night he heard the song, crystals calling to him, promising wonders. He could heard it again a night later, then he heard it during the day, and since then the song wouldn’t leave him, always present at the back of his mind like a thorn in his heart.

One month later he cried and begged until he could speak no more. The song turned into a cacophony of sounds that seemed to come from so many different places, from his own mind as well, and he begged and begged, hands bleeding, nails broken, throat dry.

 

* * *

 

“Templar Samson, General to Corypheus, traitor to the Order. The blood on his hands cannot be measured.”

The Inquisitor’s eyes are cold when she sits on the throne. Everyone is looking at him, the weight of their angry glares and whispered curses is heavier than the shackles on his wrists.

“You don’t deserve a cell where you can die in comfort feeling sorry for yourself. If the lyrium takes you, let it happen while you are cold and alone. You are exiled.”

Lavellan’s words echo between the walls, pierce through the fog covering Samson’s mind. He glances around, awaiting confirmation. Cullen clearly had to force himself to come here and watch. He stands silent, his gaze fixed on the floor, lips twisted with an emotion Samson knows all too well. _Disgust_.

Samson tries to reason with the Inquisitor. If she leaves him in the wilds like an unwanted toy, he’ll go mad. Once he becomes truly monstrous nothing will stop him from murdering innocent people. If she wants to punish him, she should simply kill him. He’s ready to accept death. Lavellan doesn’t listen.

Samson takes a deep breath, the air is dry, and the burning in his guts dulls almost everything else. Two soldiers take him back to his cell, dragging him away from the angry crowd. He looks over his shoulder at their faces twisted in rage but everything transforms into a blur as if someone spilled water on the still fresh painting.

Perhaps it’s all a dream, and he’s walking through the Fade tormented by his memories. But no, the shackles are cold on his feverish skin, and the smell of blood and sweat (and _disgust_ ), is so heavy in the air he has trouble breathing.

He collapses on the small cot, and closes his eyes. There’s this thought again, a voice telling him to claw at his face, tear open his skin to finally reveal something _red_. Something he so desires it drives him half mad listening to the sounds that seem to come from his own mind.

It used to be a song. He clearly remembers a sweet, beautiful song he could hear somewhere at the back of his mind. Then a single note changed. Then another, and another. The more he took, the more the song changed eventually becoming nothing but howling, screaming of some wild animal, a creature so twisted and vile it made every nerve in his body shiver with revulsion. Or perhaps he’s the one who screams and howls, begging for a single drop, or dust, or something that can make that awful noise stop.

 

* * *

 

Once he falls it’s hard to get up. The ground is cold, the rags he’s wearing are soaked, and soon he begins to tremble. Lavellan knew what she was doing. Why waste her precious time executing him, when she can prolong his torment indefinitely.

He’s been walking for Maker knows how long, fighting with exhaustion and pain. The stars above his head are awfully bright tonight. Samson closes his eyes, finally giving up. He can at least try to enjoy his last moments while his mind still belongs to him. His hand idly touches a small shape that hangs on a string on his neck. _Soon_ , he whispers like a promise.

He doesn’t remember waking up.

His eyes are open but he can’t see; all noises are dulled, impossible to understand. The sharp pain in his chest makes him beg but the world around him is deaf to his pleas.

_Drink!_ , someone says, or maybe he’s just talking to himself. Cool liquid on his lips. He nearly chokes, but someone (something?), forces him to drink more, and more until he nearly chokes.

Someone holds a torch, flames burning bright hurt his eyes. And yet he stares right at the fire, transfixed by the way they consume the darkness of the night. He takes a deep breath, smoke filling his lungs. Kirkwall is burning again, his whole body is burning as well. Blood drips from a sunburst symbol on a man’s forehead, and suddenly everything is red and burning, then more red, and more as Samson coughs out so much blood he’s scared there’s nothing left inside him.

 

* * *

 

He’s not a religious man, but death, he thinks, death should bring him at least some sort of peace. Samson never really listened to the Chantry’s blabbing about the Maker’s love. Deep down, however, he hoped that the afterlife will bring him relief. Not that he’s a good man that deserves it, but if his life sucks and then he dies and everything gets even _worse_ , then what’s the point of all this in the first place.

There’s no consolation, no relief. His body is heavy, consumed by fever. He’s lying on hard wooden desks, covered with a blanket. The sky moving above him is awfully bright, so he closes his eyes. He vaguely wonders if he’s on a carriage. Maybe he’s travelling to the afterlife. Voices he hears are distorted, speaking in some odd language. Maybe they’re discussing how to make him suffer even more. Maybe they’re laughing at him. It doesn’t matter.

Nothing matters, but the craving consuming his mind. His dreams make him exhausted, making him relieve all his past failures. For a moment he’s sure he’s in Kirkwall again, walking to the Docks like every other night. Then he wakes up with a jolt, his skin burning and itching so much that strong hands have to hold him down or else he would tear open his flesh.

A song pierces through the red haze covering his mind, and he forces himself to concentrate on it. It’s a song, like a lullaby hummed by a mother to her son in the candlelight, in a small house somewhere in Kirkwall, long time ago. The melody he hears is different than the one he remembers, yet somehow the same, and the intensity of the long forgotten memories of warmth and peace breaks him into pieces, making him sob.

The cool cloth wipes his face again. Hastily whispered words in a language he doesn’t understand offer no consolation. But they’re all he has now, so he listens to every single one of them, imagining this is the day he is finally able to die.

 

* * *

 

Andraste and the Maker, if they exist, have a cruel sense of humour. He lives even though there’s no will in him left to continue living. When Samson wakes up, he feels nearly offended.

He sits up, his bare feet touch the cold floor. At least he doesn’t feel like he’s floating in water anymore. The pounding in his head reminds him just how tired he is, even after sleeping for so long.

His skin itches. He mindlessly scratches his hand. He has to force himself to ignore the need to inspect every inch of his body just to check if there are red crystals poking through his flesh.

His old clothes are gone, though he can’t quite recall what he was wearing. Some rags, probably, whatever the Inquisition allowed him to have. He’s wearing a white shirt and dark breeches; the clothes fit though they surely belong to someone else. Or maybe this is what every dead person wears in the afterlife. Too bad his whole body hurts.

His discovers his pockets are empty, and in a moment of panic he considers tearing everything apart because _it must be here somewhere_. He clutches at his chest, but finds nothing. A terrifying thought stabs his mind like a needle, making it hard to breathe. What if he doesn’t have it anymore? Samson looks around, the feeling of being utterly lost crushing every rational thought he has.

Then his eyes look at the bedside table, and he can breathe again. A small scrap of metal on a string lays near a bottle. He didn’t lose it. And whatever found him was kind enough to keep it with him. He scratches his hand again, this time harder, to feel nails digging in his skin.

Hearing footsteps approaching, Samson glances at the door, uncertain what he’s about to see. He half expects it’s the Inquisitor who tracked him down to taunt him again.

A tall man stands at the door, his eyes fixed on Samson. He’s tense and focused, lips pressed into a thin line. _Like a dog ready to bite,_ Samson thinks, noticing the man keeps one hand on the hilt of his sword.

He won’t strike unless provoked. Or given an order by a woman who accompanies him. He steps aside to let her in, making it clear he’s some sort of a bodyguard hired to protect her.

She’s wearing a simple grey robe with a brooch on her chest. When she looks at him there’s no fear in her eyes. Perhaps she doesn’t know who he is; or maybe she knows him well, and that’s why she intends to keep him alive. She’s think and young, and there are too many freckles on her square face.

She moves a chair close to the bed, and sits down. As she studies him with reserved curiosity, her lips twitch as if she just discovered something that pleased her greatly.

Samson takes a deep breath. Something tells him he’s not going to like whatever she has to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: this chapter contains the Inquisitor's lines taken straight from Samson’s judgement.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samson speaks to the woman who saved his life.

His guests remain silent for a longer while, their piercing eyes watching him intensely. The silence makes Samson uncomfortable, but it’s nothing compared to the feeling of spikes piercing through his skull. And the thirst coiling in his gut, a craving getting stronger with every breath he takes.

_Are we going to just stare at each other all day?_ He frowns, feeling more uneasy with every passing second. What if they don’t speak common? He never bothered to learn another language.

The woman sits with her back perfectly straight. If she wasn’t breathing she’d look more like a statue than a living person. Just when he wonders what’s the best way of telling her to leave him alone to die, she finally speaks.

“Templar, beggar. General. So many titles just for one man. How shall I address you now?”

There’s a trace of accent in her voice; he heard it before. All Vints sound the same, bossy and demanding

“I don’t care.”

Speaking makes his throat hurt, and Samson coughs. He can barely recognise his own voice.

“And you are?”

There’s something familiar in her. Looking at this woman makes him nervous for reasons he can’t explain, as if he knew her but couldn’t remember ever meeting her.

How he got here is a mystery. The place doesn’t look like a dungeon but like a regular house. Something tells him they’re not in Ferelden anymore. Just wondering how much time is lost to him makes his headache worse. He was exiled by the Inquisitor, everything that happened after is a blur in his head.

“My name is Calpernia,” she says, holding her chin up. “I represent the Venatori.”

“Whatever’s left of the Venatori, you mean,” he quips.

The Red Templars weren’t the only ones serving Corypheus. From what Samson knows, the Venatori had ambitious albeit borderline insane plans. Summoning a demon army? Time travel magic? It was hard to believe half the stuff he heard. Only Tevinter mages could think something like that would work.

Perhaps the Venatori are still fighting. It doesn't matter much now. The Elder One is dead, and Samson should be dead too. Yet this woman won't let him die, failing to understand he's a lost cause.

Calpernia keeps her face a mask. “There’s still enough of us left. Too bad the Inquisition obliterated your Red Templars.”

Samson snorts. Well, at least his captor knows how to hold an interesting conversation.

What he sees in her are flaws; too many freckles on her square face, big ears, a gap between her front teeth. Not exactly the image of the Venatori leader.

There’s a red gem in a brooch pinned on front of her robe. Red, very red, and for a second he thinks it’s pulsing, mimicking his heartbeat. Feeling his arms trembling, Samson balls his hands into fists. His sickly pale skin is covered with sweat. In her eyes he must be monstrous.

“I’ve prepared a potion for you,” Calpernia points at the bedside table. “Drink it, you’ll feel better.”

Samson glances at the small bottle. No label, it could be anything. Part of him wishes it was poison.

 “ _You_ prepared it? Or did you order your minions to do it for you?” He barks. It doesn’t matter he sounds like an angry fool. Anger feels good. It gives him something else to focus on.

“Drink,” Calpernia repeats with vague irritation. Perhaps she’s not used to others stubbornly questioning her orders. “Drink or I'll force it down your throat.”

Anger coils inside him. He’s too weak to react so he merely glares at her.

There's always someone trying to pull him back on his feet. He can't do anything himself. His life is someone else’s idea. People have _plans_ for him. Too bad they don’t know he’s doomed to fail no matter what.

First the Champion made it possible that he could be a templar again. That didn't last long but Samson could at least belong somewhere again. Then the Elder One offered him red lyrium, and Samson said yes. He said yes to everything, no matter how painful and degrading, because the red was sweet and tempting. For a moment he believed he could fight and win.

And now Calpernia.

There’s not much of his templar skills left, but he knows magic when he feels it. This time it  smells like ashes and smoke. Realising Calpernia is a mage, a _Tevinter_ mage, Samson nearly bursts out laughing. He’s come this far to find himself at the mercy of a mage.

Silently he reaches for the small bottle, opens it and drinks, feeling Calpernia's eyes watching his every move. The potion has a bitter taste but he can barely notice. After drinking red lyrium for so long it’s difficult to feel the taste of other things. Nothing can compare to the red.

“Good,” Calpernia says as he puts the empty bottle on the floor. She seems quite pleased. It’s rather surprising she can look at him without being completely disgusted.

“You will drink this potion twice a day from now on. You’ll also get food and water, and you will eat everything my people bring you.”

He nods, not in a mood to argue. All his anger is gone, replaced by the overwhelming feeling of exhaustion. Sooner or later she will realise it's all futile.

“Now, you have to look... presentable.” She studies him with a frown. “I need you to meet someone. I brought you fresh clothes. Nothing I’d call elegant but they are clean, and you’re in no position to complain.”

_Bossy. Vint. Witch. I have you all figured out._

For a moment he considers asking her what she knows about templars and southern mages. What a foolish thought.

Samson nods again. The pounding in his head gets stronger.

As he ponders on his misery, Calpernia gets up, ready to leave. They aren’t going to have a heartfelt conversation today, it seems. But there’s one thing he needs to know. It’s trivial, yet important. He needs something to anchor him to reality.

“Where are we?”

Calpernia turns around to look at him. He doesn’t like the way her eyes change as she studies him for a moment. Maybe she finally realised he’s a wreck she doesn’t really need.

“In Lydes, Orlais,” she says. Her voice is soft, sounding so different than moments ago it makes Samson irrationally angry.

He can deal with disgust; seeing _pity_ in her eyes drives him mad.

Her eyes linger on him for a moment too long. The she leaves along with her companion. Well, at least now he can be sure this isn’t the afterlife.

He takes off his shirt and carelessly tosses it on the floor, barely registering the cold air hitting his skin. The clothes are slightly too big but they fit well enough. Maybe he got thinner. Thankfully there’s no mirror around here. Samson scratches his skin; he should shave but it’s doubtful the Vints will get him a razor.

After a moment of hesitation he grabs the small bird from the bedside table, and hangs it around his neck. The metal feels hot against his skin.

 

* * *

 

As the Vint takes him to another room, Samson glances around to discover they have to be inside a mansion. Or just a huge house of someone who is wealthy enough that they can afford having so many rooms. He’s never been in a house so big; he usually stayed in the dirties part of Kirkwall, where whole families live in one tiny place.

He gets inside what looks like a dining room. The quiet Vint is gone, leaving Samson alone. Heavy curtains cover a window on the other side of the room. There’s a long table in the middle, surrounded by chairs. Samson picks one of them and sits down. Other than that the room is oddly empty. He doesn’t have much time to ponder on his surroundings because the door opens again.

It’s Calpernia, this time accompanied by a different man. He speaks in Tevene, excitement clear in his voice. His shocked eyes look back and forth at Samson then again at Calpernia.

It's nearly disturbing, the way this Vint blatantly stares at him. Samson narrows his eyes, scanning the man's face, trying to determine what is the purpose of this meeting. The stranger seems even younger than Calpernia. His hair is short, while his clothes indicate he's been travelling.

Calpernia invites him inside. He sits down on the other side of the table, while she remains at the door.

“I can hardly believe..!” the Vint speaks in common, grinning. “You obviously don’t know me, but I worked with your Red Templars. Perhaps you recall sending your men to the Western Approach? Blighted place, sand gets _everywhere_. Though I never heard them complain. Unfortunately there was an accident involving a high dragon – ”

“Who's this clown?” Samson glances at Calpernia. His head is spinning, skin itching. He certainly doesn’t need this kind of torture, talking to a crazy Vint.

She opens her lips but the man speaks first. “Crassius Servis of Vyrantium, at your service.”

Samson snorts. “Servis at your _service_?”

The man nods. “Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think, General?”

“He's a smuggler,” Calpernia explains. “He worked for the Venatori before the Inquisition got him.”

“If the Inquisitor let you go, it means you’re their agent now. Your loyalty to them is rather questionable,” Samson says, and Servis just shrugs.

“I'll start worrying when they find out I'm not exactly following the Inquisitor's orders. The less they know, the better. I'm quite fond of my head, you see. I like it attached to the rest of my body.”

“We need to leave this town,” Calpernia states. “Servis will get us across the sea.”

Samson's gaze moves back to her. She never explained why he's here, why she bothered to save him. If they're going north, then they'll most likely travel to Tevinter. Or perhaps their initial goal is to get as far from the Inquisiton as possible. Though Samson suspects they doesn't care about him anymore. Why would they? The Elder One is dead, what's left of the Red Templars doesn't pose a threat to the almighty Inquisitor.

“May I ask you something?” Servis' voice breaks through his thoughts. When Samson glares at him, the smuggler moves his chair back a little, as if afraid the former templar could reach across the table and attack him. Perhaps he will, if the pounding in his head gets any louder.

“No,” Samson barks. Servis audibly gasps in surprise. Samson doesn't fail to notice that Calpernia's lips twitch as she fights with a smile.

“But I must! You were the Elder One's General!”

“It doesn't mean anything now,” Samson lets out a sigh. His tired eyes move back to Calpernia. “Are we done?”

“You will be escorted to your room.” She points at the door. She turns to Servis. “Let’s discuss the details.”

“Lady Calpernia, there’s something I need –”

“And _I_ need you to listen to me now, Servis. Don’t test my patience.”

Servis looks like a sad puppy as he pleads in Tevene. Other than few simple phrases Samson doesn't know this language at all, so he stops listening and leaves.

A woman with a scar on her face guides him back to his room where he finds a tray with food and a jug of water. Someone has cleaned his dirty clothes and replaced the old sweat soaked blanket with a new one.

The window is open, he can hear birds singing outside. The setting sun paints everything in warm colours. The world just keeps going.

The world doesn’t care about some old, useless templar. The problem is that Samson isn’t sure if he finds it comforting or not.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Calpernia explains her plan. At least part of it.

He doesn’t see Calpernia for the next two days. He spends time sleeping and doing everything she wants from him. For now it’s all about eating what he’s given, and drinking that magical potion that’s supposed to help him. It doesn’t; the craving for lyrium burns his guts and creeps into his every thought. But at least drinking that potion makes it easier for him to sleep, so Samson sleeps, and sleeps, and sleeps, hoping one day he won’t wake up so exhausted.

A girl with a scar on her face brings him food and water. She’s silent like a grave, not that Samson tries talking to her. When she brings him another meal in the afternoon, he considers asking her about her name.

She leaves the door closed but unlocked. Heavy footsteps on the corridor tell him someone is assigned to guard him in case he thinks about escaping. Samson looks out of the window to see the garden surrounding the mansion is well maintained, full of colourful flowers and bushes.

Lydes. What he recalls about Orlais is all about burned houses, devastated villages and scarlet crystals growing tall on corpses. Something twists nervously in his gut, the ringing in his ears getting stronger. He could jump out. The room is on the first floor so he probably wouldn’t break his legs. Then he could climb the fence and run as far as he can.

He shakes his head. Thoughts like these only make his headaches worse. He drinks the potion that’s supposed to help him. His body feels heavy and numb. Maybe they’re drugging him with something. Not that he cares.

There’s not much to do other than sleep or stare at the empty walls. He finds a stack of books on the table. They’re all written in Orlesian so he puts them back with a dissatisfied grunt.

Someone unceremoniously opens the door. It seems Samson doesn’t get the privilege of privacy if anyone can just barge in here like that. It’s not the silent Vint who doesn’t talk, though this one looks just as hostile as the other man.

“Come,” he says in common, words marked with a heavy accent Samson can’t quite recognise. “Lady Calpernia needs to speak with you.”

_Then she should come here instead of sending one of her lackeys to fetch me_ , he thinks with a bitter smile. He doesn’t have much choice (none, really), so he gets up and follows the man through a long corridor. The place is eerily empty, which is odd because if there’s something he knows about Orlesians it’s that they like to surround themselves with paintings, statues, and everything else they like to call _art_.

Then it hits him; all valuables are gone. Calpernia’s Venatori sold whatever they could, leaving a lot of empty space behind. _If they plan to travel across Thedas they sure need a lot of coin…_

There’s not much left in the room that Calpernia occupies. She is seated by a small table. The fireplace behind her back is cold, though from the burned logs Samson can tell it’s been recently used. There’s a rectangular shape on the wall above the fireplace, as if something used to hang there. The bookshelves are empty, books stacked in piles on the floor.

Calpernia gestures at another chair by the table. Samson sits down thinking about something clever to say. _Hopefully she’s not going to introduce me to another Vint_.

“Would you like some tea?”

Samson stares at her in confusion. Only then he notices a porcelain set on the table, two teacups and a kettle.

“Excuse me?”

“Tea,” Calpernia repeats, one eyebrow raised. “You do have tea in Kirkwall, I hope? You can drink it for pleasure, I’m not _forcing_ you.”

Samson snorts. Lady Calpernia has a sense of humour, what an amazing discovery. He learns something new every day. She’s wearing the same grey robe like before, though the red brooch is gone. There are scars on her hands and forearms, strikingly visible on her pale skin.

“And I assure you it’s not poisoned,” she adds after a moment of consideration.

“No, thank you,” he says, trying to sound polite. Calpernia just shrugs, then reaches for her cup. Samson can smell mint in the air.

“How do you feel?” she asks before taking a sip.

He hates this question. _Like shit_ , he grits his teeth. _I shouldn’t even be alive, and here I am. What a fucking miracle._

“Been better,” he replies, hoping he doesn’t sound too bitter. Whatever they are giving him works well enough that at least he doesn’t want to bash his head against the wall anymore. Or maybe they tricked him into believing it works. It’s doubtful there’s a lyrium problem in Tevinter, not that he knows much about the Imperium.

“You’ve greatly improved. When I first saw you…” Calpernia pauses. A frown appears between her brows as she studies his face. Samson raises an eyebrow; did she expect to see him transformed into a red lyrium monstrosity by now?

“Sufficient to say that it was difficult to believe you were the one chosen by the Elder One considering your wretched state.”

“I guess he didn’t have much choice.”

Calpernia narrows her eyes at him. When she speaks there’s something like deeply hidden jealousy in her voice.  “I do wonder why Corypheus considered you the best candidate.”

“Did he have other candidates?” he asks in an innocent voice.

She regards him for a longer while, then changes the topic, completely ignoring his question. Samson hides a smile.

“My sources tell me you wielded a sword with shards of red lyrium. And that you wore an armour with red crystals. Care to explain _how_ that vile substance didn’t kill you?”

There’s genuine interest in her voice. Again there’s a hint of pity in her eyes, and if there’s something Samson hates it’s pity. Especially coming from people who consider themselves better than everyone else.

“I’m special,” he gives her a crooked smile. _Sorry I don’t feel like telling you my life story._

Calpernia purses her lips. Dissatisfied with his answers, she swiftly changing the topic once again.

“We’re leaving Lydes tomorrow,” she reminds him. “We travel north and get on a ship that will take us to Val Royeaux.”

“If that smuggler friend of yours keeps his word.”

“He will.”

There’s something in her voice that tells him that she will make Crassius Servis do everything she wants him to do, or the man will regret the day he was born.

“Do you feel well enough to hold a sword?”

Samson shrugs. Not so long ago he could barely stand on his feet. He suspects magic is involved, though he doesn’t want to think _what_ sort of spells Calpernia’s Tevinter forces used on him.

“Yes.” It’s not a lie, though if she pressed he’d have to admit that yes, he can hold a sword but can he do anything else that _holding_ it? As much as his condition has improved, Samson is far from his old self. He feels a pang of shame every time his own body fails him, craving the very poison that transformed him into the shivering mess he’s now.

He can hold a sword, and he will fight for this woman if he has to. But memories of all that’s lost leave him angry and bitter. Calpernia can try to fix his health so he can fight for her and her little Tevinter cult – if this is what she truly wants from him. But she can’t fix him. No one can.

“What do you want from me?” Samson asks. It’s tiring, talking about nothing. She clearly has a plan, so it’s about time she told him something about it.

Calpernia sets the teacup on the table. She doesn’t speak for a longer moment, eyes fixed on the porcelain cup. Samson begins to wonder if she heard his question. Maybe she enjoys tormenting him. Or maybe she considers how much of her plan she can reveal.

“We’re going to the Temple of Dumat.”

He gives her a puzzled look. It’s not the answer he expected to hear. Frankly, it would be less surprising if she told him she wants to sell him to the highest bidder. There are lots of people who wants him dead, including the Inquisitor.

“It’s a ruin,” he explains. “We destroyed everything and burned the place when we heard the Inquisition’s coming.”

“Yet they somehow found what they needed to destroy your armour,” she points out, once again showing she knows quite a lot about him.

“They have a very talented arcanist. She's a dwarf, talks too much.”

The memory of that plucky dwarven girl talking nonstop how _exciting_ she finds red lyrium makes Samson cringe. Every time she looked at him there was something in her eyes telling him she would gladly dissect him if given the chance.

“What do you expect to find there?”

“You’ll see.”

Her confident tone is back, and the way she looks at him, so full of herself, is maddening. Samson lets out a sigh, the ringing in his ears sounds like a pack of famished wolves howling for food.

Calpernia clearly doesn’t believe him, but there’s _nothing_ there. Nothing but ruins and bad memories. Besides, going back to a place where his Templars used to grow red lyrium doesn’t seem like the smartest move. Perhaps the Inquisition destroyed every single scarlet crystal they could find, but what if they didn’t?

Calpernia can give him all magical potions in the world, because as long as he doesn’t see that thing anymore (only think about it obsessively) he’s relatively safe. What will happen if he’s close to red lyrium again? That will be the real test. And Samson is sure he’s going to fail it, just like he failed everything else in his life.

“We’re going to the temple, and then… Tevinter,” it’s more a question than a statement. Samson figured this much. They’re certainly not going back to Ferelden, and there’s simply no place in Thedas that would welcome their presence. Except Tevinter.

Calpernia nods, then takes another sip of tea. “Yes, I plan to return to the Imperium eventually.”

She confirms this much, though she doesn’t explain why she needs him of all people. He used to be the Elder One’s right hand. It doesn’t matter now since the god he served is dead. If Calpernia thinks he knows something important that may help the Venatori or Tevinter, then she’s going to be severely disappointed. All he cared about was related to the Red Templars. He worked with the Venatori, it’s true, but didn’t know much about them.

Not to mention there’s nothing left in the Temple of Dumat. He made sure to destroy as much as he could, and then the Inquisitor’s forces seized the place. All their work is gone, all his men are dead. His hands tremble slightly, so he balls them into fists. In his pocket there’s a small bird made out of scraps of metal. Miraculously he didn’t lose it; it’s the one thing Lavellan mercifully allowed him to have. It’s small and it weights almost nothing. Now it’s hot like a coal, burning through the fabric of his breeches, burning his skin, leaving a shape of a bird with outstretched wings on his flesh.

Samson lets out a breath, the sensation is gone. Calpernia studies him but doesn’t ask, observing his reactions rather curiously, like he was a specimen in a menagerie she paid to see.

“If you need anything, ask Talia.”

“Talia?”

“The girl who brings you food. She speaks common. Just know that if you try to harm her, I instructed her to break your neck.”

She’s serious, yet there’s a glitter of amusement in her eyes.

“She doesn’t look like a fighter.”

Calpernia gives him a significant look. “You don’t look like one either.”

Samson smiles; he should be offended, this little Tevinter witch doesn’t know what she’s talking about. His past doesn’t matter much now, besides he’s acutely aware of his own wretched state.

“She’s your servant?”

Her brows knit. “No, I don’t keep servants. It was her decision to help me.”

Something tells him that pressing the matter further isn’t a good idea. He nods and gets up. It would be easier if he wasn’t so damn tired all the time. If Calpernia wanted to have an intellectual conversation with him, she sure is disappointed.

“You’re not a prisoner here.”

Something like laughter comes from his throat. “But I can’t leave, can I?”

Calpernia’s lips twist into a bitter smile. “It’s better for you if you decide to stay. Do you need anything before we leave this city?”

He scratches his chin. “I’d like to shave.”

“It can be arranged.” She regards him with a critical glare. “You should bathe as well.”

_And use flowery perfume that’s pleasant for your delicate nose?_ “If you say so.”

When he later finds himself in a bathroom, Samson reluctantly looks in the mirror. He stares at his reflection wondering what Calpernia wants from this broken man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: this chapter has parts from drafts for Arsonist’s Lullabye I never used. Originally I even planned to write a proper beginning for that series because it kind of starts in the middle without any explanation. But I never did because, well, there was no point.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Servis keeps his word, and they travel to Val Royeaux.

Some time ago Calpernia made a surprising discovery. Revolutions begin on paper. They start as letters and secret messages sent to the right person. _Knowledge is power_ , she thinks, encouraging her people to learn how to read and write.

It’s past midnight when she’s finally done, her hands stained with ink, all her letters ready to send before they leave Lydes. Her agents from the Imperium bring her unsettling news, but for now she has to concentrate on different matters.

She glances around the room to check if she packed everything. Selling Lyrio’s possessions gave them enough coin for a long travel. Servis will wait for them at the docks. Involving him was a gamble, but so far he proves to be trustworthy. If he doesn’t care about the Venatori, she can convince him with gold. Her lips twist into a bitter smile; perhaps nobody cares about the Venatori anymore. Maybe she’s the only one who thinks her plan matters.

Everything goes rather smoothly, yet Calpernia can’t quite ignore the anxious feeling in her heart. She needs to leave this country and finally return to Tevinter. Unfortunately it’s not as easy as it should be. It’s been two years she left the Imperium. Two years of hard work and pretending she doesn’t exist, that the woman called Calpernia was killed like the other three leaders of the Venatori.

The return she had in mind was completely different. She wanted to go back to Tevinter with the Elder One once he got what he needed, so that he could fulfil his part of their agreement. She could help him restore Tevinter, give people freedom they rightfully deserve. Little did she know the creature that called himself god was doomed to fail.

When she finally goes to sleep, Calpernia dreams of some distant lands. She never pays much attention to her dreams. What are they, anyway, images she doesn’t understand and will soon forget. There are days when she wakes up with a strange feeling as if she was close to discovering something but woke up too soon. As if there was someone calling her from far away. _It’s nothing_ , she convinces herself and pretends to forget. Besides, if she’s exhausted her dreams don’t bother her, so she makes sure to work hard until she can’t keep her eyes open any longer.

Calpernia washes her hands again but the ink stains are still visible. They are never clean, her hands.

Every magister who ever visited Erasthenes’ house was always well dressed, but one thing she remembers in particular – their hands. Clean, often with painted nails, showing no signs of hard labour. Even though the masters reeked of blood magic, there never was a single stain of blood on their fine clothes. Their hands were perfectly clean and seemed so delicate. Yet they could smack her face or grip her arm hard enough to bruise.

There’s a knock on the door, the sound brings Calpernia back to reality.

“Excuse me, Lady Calpernia,” Talia peaks inside. For a moment she stares at Calpernia’s feet, but then she remembers and looks her in the eyes, no longer afraid. “We are ready to leave. Everything’s prepared as you instructed.”

“Thank you,” Calpernia says with a smile.  

Talia doesn’t want to stay in the house of her dead master. The girl is determined to help the Venatori, knowing nothing about their cause. _She deserves to make her own decisions_.

They leave in the early morning light, when the rest of Lydes wakes up to face another day.

 

* * *

 

_The Faithful Maiden_ isn’t the most comfortable ship in Orlais as Calpernia soon discovers. It’s a merchant ship, good for storing goods and cattle, and occasionally smuggling people across the Waking Sea. The captain is someone Servis claims to know, a grumpy old man. Once they pay him he has no problems letting a group of strangers travel on his ship, no questions asked. _The power of gold is truly amazing_ , Calpernia thinks bitterly, handling the man a bag full of coins. When he weights it in his hands, the expression on his face changes and he gives her a smile.

Space below the deck is loaded with all kinds of cargo. Calpernia wrinkles her nose. Strong smell of spices makes her sneeze. Talia sits by her side, while two other Venatori and Samson are in the other part of the ship. Servis returned to Lydes. He needs to keep her updated about the Inquisition’s whereabouts. Calpernia can only pray he lives long enough that they meet again.

The stench of sea and fish combined with the smell of spices makes her sick. But it’s her pride that hurts more than her stomach. _Tevinter’s Champion_ , the Elder One called her. How pitiful is that the _Champion_ has to sit among boxes, hidden like a common criminal. She takes a deep breath, then reaches for a book she packed, determined to focus on something else than the nauseating feeling in her guts. Talia offers her a bottle of water. Calpernia accepts it with a weak smile.

The ship seems to move at an agonizingly slow pace. She tries to read for a while but her eyes don’t want to cooperate, letters dancing on pages. Calpernia grits her teeth, hands pressed to her stomach. _This is ridiculous._

“Do you want to eat, Lady Calpernia?” Talia asks. Poor girl looks worried. “I packed fresh bread.”

“Maybe later, thank you.” She’d rather starve than eat right now. “But do eat if you’re hungry.”

 “Not the best place for a picnic, I daresay.”

Seeing Samson walking to them so casually makes Calpernia forget about her sea sickness for a brief moment. Talia stares at the former templar with her eyes narrowed. Her hand moves to a knife on her belt.

He shaved, and looks a bit more presentable, though he’s still far from the image she had in her mind when she heard about the Red Templar General. At times Calpernia wonders if what’s left of him will be enough to help her in the Temple of Dumat. Perhaps she made a big mistake, rescuing this man. But it doesn’t matter now as she tries very hard to convince herself she doesn’t feel sick to her stomach on this blighted ship.

“You don’t look so good, Lady Calpernia,” Samson states the obvious as he sits down on a crate next to her.

She responds with a glare that could turn him into a pile of ashes if she had the power.

“What are you doing here, Samson? Why isn’t anyone guarding you? Where’s Lucius?”

“I didn’t feel like sitting in one place. Is Lucius the silent Vint or the guy with a weird accent?”

“They are both Tevinter. And the other one’s name is Berard.”

“Well, _Berard_ doesn’t sound very Tevinter to me. I lived in the most Tevinter city in the Free Marches, I know you Vints.”

Calpernia scoffs. _What you claim to know is nothing but stereotypes and gossip._

“He was born in the Anderfels. Nevertheless he’s a loyal Tevinter man, and you should never question his devotion to the Imperium,” she points out.

“I wouldn’t dare,” Samson says in a mock serious tone. He regards her with an amused smile. “It’ll only take us about half a day to get to Val Royeaux. You’ll be fine.”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion,” she hisses, trying to regain some sort of dignity.

It feels like something is drilling a hole in her insides. Talia observes their exchange with slight confusion in her eyes, her hand never leaving the sheath of  her knife.

“Seasickness was quite common among templars in Kirkwall,” Samson continues, completely ignoring Calpernia’s angry stare. “It’s a big city, and the Gallows, you know, that _happy_ place where templars and mages were held like rats in cages? So the Gallows is on an island, and you had to take the – ”

“Stop talking,” Calpernia hisses. She wipes the sweat from her face.

The more amused Samson seems, the angrier she feels. There’s something incredibly annoying in the way he looks at her with that little smirk on his lips. Not so long ago he was half dead, now that he regained his strength he proves to be nothing but irritating.

_It’d be better if we just kept him unconscious till we got to the temple._ It’s an ugly thought but Calpernia feels so sick it doesn’t even matter.

“How did you get to Lydes in the first place?”

“By sea,” she says with a scowl as if just mentioning this made her more sick.

She takes a deep breath and regrets it almost immediately. The stench is unbearable yet it seems to only bother her while the girl and the templar don’t seem to mind it in the slightest.

“And look at you, you’re on a ship again. Just relax, it’ll be fine. Your friend here will take good care of you.”

He nods at Talia who merely glares at him in silence.

 “Since you’re here, let us talk about the Temple of Dumat,” Calpernia says, holding her chin up. She may as well pretend she’s fine. Showing any kind of weakness would be a mistake. “Why did the Elder One choose that place?”

Samson shrugs. “I don’t know.”

Calpernia huffs with annoyance. His ignorance is infuriating. Or perhaps he plays dumb.

“Surely he told you – ”

“He didn’t tell me anything. I don’t know about you, but Corypheus didn’t treat me like his best friend. I served him because he needed me and my men, and thanks to him we could survive after the Chantry gave up on us.”

There’s something in his voice, regret hidden so deeply Samson doesn’t want to admit it exists. Even Talia seems intrigued now, though she probably doesn’t understand much.

“You were to become the Vessel,” Calpernia continues.

“As you can see it didn’t work out,” Samson shrugs. “I was spectacularly defeated by Inquisitor Lavellan.”

“Corypheus granted you all that power, yet you still couldn’t win with the Inquisiton.”

Samson gives her a look. If she wondered if this could make him angry and talk about everything he knows, then she was wrong. It appears Samson is quite indifferent to everything, as if he couldn’t feel strong emotions anymore.

“You never met Lavellan. She always gets what she wants. She convinced one of your Vints to work for her and help defeat Alexius.”

“I’m aware. Though he’s not one of _my Vints_ , he’s not Venatori.” She searches her memories for the right name. “Dorian of House Pavus.”

“Was he a friend of yours? I imagine all magisters belong to one fancy club…”

“I’m no magister!”

Calpernia realises how angry and loud her voice is only after the words leave her mouth. Talia gasps, frightened, while Samson stares at her, stunned. Calpernia feels a sudden flare of heat in her cheeks. That was rash and stupid, and she only has herself to blame.

“Do you think all Tevinter mages are magisters?” she asks in a calm voice.

_What a Marcher can know about the Imperium?_ Even if he’s from Kirkwall, the most Tevinter city in the Free Marches, her country is most likely a mystery to him. Everything he knows is probably nothing but lies spread by the Chantry and other narrow–minded people who view the Imperium as the source of all evil.

“I think,” Samson says after a moment of thought, “that perhaps you should educate a stupid old templar about all Tevinter matters since I know so little.”

“What _do_ you know?”

Although this conversation is going nowhere, it provides just enough distraction so Calpernia can focus on something else than the way the whole ship is swaying.

“Not much,” he finally admits after a beat. “There was a Tevinter merchant in Kirkwall. He told me a bit about the Imperium. Had to leave the city once the Knight–Commander discovered that other than selling overpriced jewellery he was also a mage.”

“No templar in Kirkwall can imprison a Tevinter citizen!”

Samson lets out a chuckle. “You obviously never met Knight–Commander Meredith Stannard. She could do whatever she wanted. In her opinion it was the right thing to do.”

Something changes in his eyes. His smug smile is gone, his jaw clenched.

Calpernia observes him with caution. She’s not afraid, yet there’s something about him that makes her uneasy, sorrow buried deep underneath all that numbness.

“I should get back before your Venatori think I murdered you.” With a heavy sigh Samson gets up.

“Don’t forget to drink the potion I gave you,” she reminds him even though it’s hard to say if it helps him at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I’m sorry that this chapter is so dull. I had a terrible week, and found it hard to focus on writing.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Travelling north, getting closer to the Temple of Dumat with each passing day.

_The Faithful Maiden_ arrives in Val Royeaux in the late afternoon. When Calpernia finally sets her feet on the ground she thanks the Maker and the Old Gods for letting her get here in one piece. _Never again_ , she promises herself, glaring at the ship. Suddenly every tale she read about pirates isn’t so exciting anymore.

The docks are close to the marketplace, streets busy with people. Nobody seems interested in one of many merchant ships that comes to the city. But this is Val Royeaux, a city where the Grand Game is part of everything, so they need to be careful.

Calpernia’s eyes scan the crowd until she sees a familiar face in the sea of strangers. It’s an elf, tall, with short dark hair, dressed in simple clothes fit for a servant. He’s not wearing a mask which means he’s one of those who aren’t important. People who matter pretend they don’t see him not only because he doesn’t have a mask. Why would they bother talking to an _elf_?

As he walks up to Calpernia, his face lights up with a smile.

“Lady Calpernia, I’m happy to see you.” He bows down with respect.

_Honesty, at last_. She gives him a smile. “I’m glad to see you, too, Ontario.”

He glances curiously at the two people he doesn’t know yet, Talia and Samson, then his blue eyes go back to Calpernia. “Follow me, please. The streets are awfully busy lately. Empress Celene wants to organise yet another festival. To celebrate her victory and the destruction of the evil forces, her emissaries says.”

Calpernia nods. Celene needs people’s support. Giving them reasons to celebrate after the civil war that nearly destroyed the country seems like a good idea.

They move to a different part of the city, far from the docks and crowds. The image of Val Royeaux Calpernia knew from books and stories is immensely different that the real city. Maybe it’s because she stays away from the places people usually visit when they travel to the heart of the Orlesian Empire. One could wonder if Empress Celene is even aware what’s happening outside the Royal Palace.

The house they stay in used to belong to a slaver. _Not anymore_ , Calpernia thinks with a certain dose of satisfaction. Ontario opens the front gate and invites them all inside. From what Calpernia can tell the place didn’t change much since her last visit. It’s still just one of many houses of the rich who aren’t wealthy enough to buy a mansion in a better part of Val Royeaux, somewhere closer to the splendid Royal Palace. Yet even far away from the centre of the city, music and singing can be heard, a reminder that the capital of the Orlesian Empire never sleeps.

“Do you need anything from me, Lady Calpernia?” Talia asks. In the candlelight her red hair looks like living flames.

“Ontario prepared dinner for all of us. Eat, get some rest. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to tell me.”

For a moment the girl appears to be lost, uncertain what to do. After years of being told what to do she can’t quite understand she can now do whatever she wants. _She will learn_ , Calpernia thinks. She won’t ever forget how overwhelmed she felt when for the first time she could go out dressed not like a slave but as a free woman. She had a small bag of coins, and she could buy not what her master required but whatever _she_ wanted. Suddenly the world seemed so big she nearly got lost.

Talia goes to the kitchen while Calpernia leaves her bag by the door and goes upstairs. There’s no trace of the _stench_ that lingered in this house last time she was here, yet she feels compelled to check. She also doesn’t see any weapons, nor chains, and she makes a mental note to herself to thank Ontario and other elves for their hard work.

With a wave of her hand the candles in the room light up. The place has been cleaned, there’s no trace of what happened. The carpet is gone; if she remembers correctly a good chunk of it got burned. Everything else is in place, books and papers no longer scattered on the floor. She should feel… remorse, perhaps. Calpernia considers the thought as she recalls the events that took place here. Instead she’s relieved. Ontario’s smile is enough to tell her she did the right thing.

In the candlelight she may see dark stains on the wall, and she regards them for a longer while. _Blood is not so easy to clean._

There’s a sound coming from the other room. Calpernia goes there to discover Samson standing by a liquor cabinet, a bottle of wine in his hand. The former owner used to put all his treasures in his room, including gifts from his rich Orlesian friends. Now there’s not much left here, though Samson still managed to find something for himself.

“You’re doing quite well for a secret leader of an organization that doesn’t exist anymore.”

 “I’m doing my best,” Calpernia says.

“Feeling better, I see,” he looks her up and down. For some reason his gaze makes her slightly uneasy.

He offers her the bottle. Calpernia shakes her head.

“Feel free to drink the whole liquor cabinet if that is your wish. And if you’re hungry the kitchen’s downstairs. Ontario prepared dinner.”

“You let me roam freely? Not scared that I’m going to run away?”

She scoffs. “To where? We’re in Val Royeaux. You can’t go back to Kirkwall. And all Orlais knows what your Red Templars did to grow lyrium. Celene made sure to inform her people about it in great detail. A nation united against a common enemy is easier to control.”

He gives her a surprised look, and Calpernia has to hide her smile. _Finally some_ emotion _on his face._

But the expression on his face quickly changes. “Tell me then, Lady Calpernia, what did my Red Templars do? What do you know?”

She can’t stand the mockery in his voice, like he truly didn’t care about anything anymore. _Is he so numb that he can talk about the monstrosities caused by red lyrium without remorse?_

“Venatori weren’t involved. It was all Red Templar business.”

“But you surely know about everything that happened in Orlais.” Before taking another sip from the bottle Samson gives her a crooked smile.

“I like to be… well–informed about current matters.” She regards his face for a longer while, wondering if she can surprise him again. “Your templars seized Suledin Keep, and used the nearby quarry for growth of red lyrium.”

“And..?” he presses. There’s a challenge in his eyes.

_What’s the point of all this?_ , Calpernia is close to ask but she chooses to answer him instead. She can’t quite explain the animosity that grows between them. The more they talk the more she wants to grab him by his shoulders and shake violently.

“People died so that your Red Templars could get the poison that twisted them into monsters.”

He nods and drinks more wine. Calpernia huffs, her brows furrowed. “You won’t try to explain yourself?”

“I did what I had to do.”

His voice is so emotionless and unapologetic, Calpernia has to resist the urge to slap him.

“That’s all you have to say? That it so just happened that many people died because you wanted red lyrium?”

Perhaps the sour look on his face is caused by the wine he’s drinking. Or maybe she touched a subject he’d rather avoid.

“Imagine there’s something you _really_ need to get. That the very existence of you and your men depends on it. How far would you go to get it?”

He mindlessly scratches his hand. There are long marks on his forearms, as if claws dug into his skin. Despite all she did, red lyrium still holds him prisoner.

Calpernia takes a deep breath. There’s no room for doubt. She needs to get to the temple first, then she’ll worry about other things.

“Is that the owner of this house? Was he one of your Venatori?”

Samson points at the portrait on the wall. He changes the topic so swiftly and unexpectedly, Calpernia has to think for a moment before she can answer.

“Vicinius was Tevinter, though he was no Venatori. I’m afraid this portrait isn’t very good. It fails to show his hideous nature.”

Samson lets out something like a chuckle. “What happened to him?”

“He’s dead because he made a mistake,” Calpernia says in a calm voice.

“And killing him was the only option?”

“He had to pay for his crimes.”

“Seems you like to define what’s just and what’s not,” he says, and takes another sip from the bottle.

Is he doing this on purpose, trying to provoke her? They can’t talk normally, they clash, fighting for Maker knows what. She saved him from certain death but Samson doesn’t feel grateful in the slightest. Not that she expects gratitude. It’s just the way he acts is infuriating.

 “So what do you think about me? About everything I did? Was it _just_?” Samson looks at her, unflinching, his dark eyes resembling holes in his skull.

_He’s not even concerned what happens to him._ All his will of life was replaced by something like bitter regret, and he can no longer feel anything else.

“It’s not for me to judge,” Calpernia says carefully. Talking to this man gives her nothing but a headache.

“Avoiding the answer is not an answer at all.”

“Talking to you is tiring. Is every templar so annoying?”

“You were the one who got me back on my feet, remember?”

_Don’t make me regret it_. Her eyes linger on his face, his skin still pale but looking slightly better. With every passing day Samson looks less like a dead man walking. Too bad he’s not so interested in being alive anymore.

“Drink all the wine you want but don’t forget about the potion,” Calpernia says, looking into his bloodshot eyes. “Lyrium withdrawal can only get worse.”

His cheek twitches as if he was about to bare his teeth to bite. The more she looks at him, the more he seems like a rabid dog.

Not waiting for his response, Calpernia turns around and leaves. There’s much to be done before they leave Val Royeaux, she shouldn’t waste time on nonsense.

* * *

 

They begin travelling north the next day. They are an odd bunch. Two Venatori men who never smile. Calpernia’s bodyguards, Samson likes to call them, forgetting their names. Lady Calpernia, sitting straight and proud on her grey horse. She glances at Samson from time to time, as if to check if he’s still following her. Talia, the girl from Lydes. From the way she looks at Calpernia one could think the Venatori leader is Andraste herself. Two elves that joined them in Val Royeaux Maker knows why. They don’t have tattoos on their faces, which means they aren’t Dalish. Servants, then, another outcasts Calpernia decided to liberate.

One day he should ask her about her obsession with freeing slaves. Then he remembers the way she talked about slavers she killed, the scars on her arms, and he’s not so sure if he should.

They have more than enough supplies, and two more horses to carry everything they need. Asking how Calpernia got all this is a tricky thing. She’s still convinced he’s not telling her the truth about the Temple of Dumat, asking him more and more intrusive question, just waiting till he finally admits he’s lying.

Unfortunately, he’s telling the truth. She’ll find out soon enough once they reach the temple and she sees with her own eyes there’s nothing but ruin waiting for her.

Hearing wolves howling in the distance Samson wonders what he’ll do if they get attacked. Calpernia has her magic, everyone else seems to have at least one weapon, while he’s left without a sword, feeling powerless. _Perhaps she doesn’t trust me enough to give me even a rusty dagger._

Riding on horseback soon gets uncomfortable. Samson can’t quite remember if he ever knew someone in Kirkwall who had horses. Some travelling merchants, most likely. When he was still a templar, a _proper_ one, he never paid much attention to what was happening outside the Gallows.

They stop to rest just before the sunset. No one needs anything from him. Sitting on the cold ground with a bowl of warm stew in his hands that one of the elves prepared, Samson feels even more useless than usually.

Calpernia is wrapped in furs, narrowing her eyes at the book she’s holding. A small ball of light floats above her head, illuminating the pages. They’re deep in the woods but still, she shouldn’t display her magic so casually. Or maybe it’s just the templar in him talking.

Two elves from Val Royeaux and the girl with a scar on her face seem to get along pretty well. Listening to them talking in Orlesian makes him wonder why the Chantry never taught templars another language. _Stupid people are easier to control_ , he thinks with resentment.

Samson closes his eyes, trying to force himself to sleep. The crackling of flames is loud, echoing in his head. When he wakes up in the middle of the night the fire is still burning. The stars above his head seem so close he could reach out his hand and touch them.

* * *

 

Another day travelling on horseback makes Samson painfully aware that he’s not a big fan of horse riding. His whole body hurts, which doesn’t exactly help with his headaches. There’s not much to do other than stare at the road ahead. When he was younger he dreamed about visiting other parts of Thedas. Now, however, Samson is sure he’d rather spend all his life in Kirkwall if he could. Calpernia dragging him to the Temple of Dumat is far from the _adventure_ his younger self had in mind.

She again tries asking him about the temple. Since he doesn’t have much to say, he gives him one of her irritated glares reserved specially for him.

“It’s a ruin,” Samson repeats once more. “It was built by Vints so how about you tell me something about it?”

She scoffs. “I fear there’s nothing Tevinter left in the temple after your Red Templars corrupted it.”

“Oh, you’d love what we did with the place,” he gives her a crooked smile. “Unfortunately the Inquisitor also did some redecorating. By the way, are you sure we’re not going to meet the Inquisition troops?”

“I am. They aren’t interested in that place anymore.”

“But you are,” he points out. “And you never explained why.”

Calpernia narrows her eyes. “You never answered my questions.”

“What questions? About my secret agreement with Corypheus? I’m terribly sorry to disappoint but there is no secret agreement.”

Samson wants to laugh. He should feel miserable, knowing that this happy adventure ends once they get to the temple and she finally realises how worthless he is. It’s pretty obvious his days are counted. What else is she supposed to do with him afterwards? She doesn’t need some old useless templar.

He shakes his head. At least when he’s talking to Calpernia, he can pretend his head doesn’t hurt like hell.

Calpernia doesn’t respond. She merely glares at him for a longer while. Perhaps she’s trying to read his thoughts (who knows what a Tevinter witch can do). Most likely frustrated by this conversation, she doesn’t speak to him again, making the journey even more tedious. Perhaps it’s for the best considering every conversation they have seems more like a battle.

_Sorry to disappoint if you thought we’re going to be best friends_ , Samson thinks with a bitter smile, glancing at Calpernia who rides in front of him.

The tedious routine of their journey makes him more tired with every passing day. Get up, eat something, drink the potion that’s supposed to help him (he still has his doubts about it); ride north, stop to get some sleep. Travelling with his Red Templars was never a problem. Now it’s a torture. It was different for obvious reasons, yet Samson can’t help but think just how red lyrium changed his body and mind. Back then he was the strongest; now he’s the weakest.

He has to think about something else or the craving inside him will drive him mad. Food tastes like ashes, and the potion doesn’t help him at all but he drinks it anyway, feeling Calpernia’s watchful gaze on him.

Then one day the routine finally ends. It’s difficult to believe since he started wondering if perhaps it was all an elaborate hoax, a special form of torture reserved specially for him, and he’d spend all eternity travelling to a place that doesn’t really exist.

Samson watches the sun set, the silhouette of the Temple of Dumat looming ominously in the distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Doubtful but in case someone’s wondering, I’ll post chapter 8 one day later, on Monday. I’m going to a convention, it’s a huge event that starts on Thursday and ends on Monday, and I’ll be pretty busy with getting ready for panels and cosplaying. I’ll post the next chapter on Monday, it’s more or less ready, just needs editing. They’re _finally_ getting to the temple, and _finally_ something’s actually happening instead of just talking.   
>  As always comments are appreciated.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samson shows the Venatori a way to get inside the Temple of Dumat.

When they arrive at the Temple of Dumat Samson can barely recognise the place. The fact that they planed their little expedition for the last moments of the night, just before the sunset, isn’t helping at all. The place is unprotected, left by the Inquisition’s troops as soon as they discovered there’s nothing of value among the stone walls.

He told them everything he knows. He even drew them a map, a _fucking map_ , describing what is in every chamber. What _was_ – because everything has been thoroughly destroyed by the Inquisition. And yet the Venatori won’t believe him. _Calpernia_ won’t believe him, her men just blindly follow her every order.

Even when she walks among the rubble, seeing with her own eyes the ruin that was once the Temple of Dumat, she still clings to the idea there must be something hidden there. Calpernia walks in front of him, barely acknowledging his presence. As if now that he brought her here, fulfilling his purpose, he stopped being relevant to her.

No matter how hard he tries to not think about it, his mind keeps going back to memories from a different time, from another life. The smell of red lyrium, its warm glow on his skin. Crimson crystals growing everywhere his men planted them, transforming the old Tevinter temple into a stronghold of the Red Templars, their banners hanging proudly on the walls.

Maddox standing by his working bench, making swords with red lyrium and steel; making small birds with spare scraps of metal. There was so much red all around him it was almost easy to pretend the sunburst symbol on his forehead didn’t exist.

Samson feels the watchful gaze of Calpernia’s Venatori _guards_ , promising him they won’t hesitate to strike. Thankfully the rest of their merry band of misfits stays back at the camp. It’s just him and the Venatori. He spends so much time with Tevinters lately, he may actually learn Tevene one day. So far he only knows how to insult someone in five different ways, but it’s a start.

They get inside a narrow passage. Red Templars never used it, mainly for practical reasons. Perhaps in the old days this was a secret way to the temple; the ceiling is hanging low, and the cold stones make it feel like being trapped inside a coffin.

Calpernia turns around; a white ball of magic floating above her hand is their only source of light. She’s the only person who can stand tall in the narrow corridor. She nods at the door ahead of them, and they all follow.

They are inside the temple, the corridor is dark in the predawn light but Samson can make out some old carvings at the walls. He never noticed them before. There was too much red lyrium growing all around, but now that the scarlet glow is gone he can see things more clearly.

Calpernia stops abruptly. There’s _something_ scratching at the stone door. It looks so bizarre that at first Samson considers it a trick his plagued mind plays on him. Although judging from Calpernia’s reaction the creature is, in fact, real.

Samson walks forward, readying his sword. Because yes, before they left the camp they finally gave him a weapon. Is this another test? Vints doesn’t move, observing both him and the creature, perhaps calculating what are the odds he’s going to turn on them.

The creature turns its blind eyes at them and emits a sound like a hiss or a growl, sniffing in the air. It’s no demon, though it’s difficult to say what this thing is exactly. It’s wearing rags on a sickly grey skin, its limbs thin like sticks. Few strands of hair cling to its skull. Maybe it was human once. For a moment Samson tries to recognise its features dreading the vile creature in front of his eyes used to be one of his templars. But its face is unrecognisable, and there’s no point staring at this thing, hoping it was someone he used to know. All his men are dead by the hand of the Inquisition or driven insane by the red crystals growing on their bodies.

Maybe this thing felt whatever’s left of all that red lyrium that used to grow here, and tempted by its twisted song decided to come and take it. Perhaps there’s still enough left of red lyrium. Perhaps it grows under the stone floor, in the walls, under the ground. Samson looks around but his eyes can’t pierce the darkness surrounding them. Maybe if he put his ear to the floor he’d hear it calling out to him, tempting him with a sweet song that later turns into a howl.

The swords is heavy in Samson’s hand. It shouldn’t be, it’s just a simple sword. He once wielded a terrifying blade that belonged to Knight – Commander Meredith. He could cut a man in half with that sword. He could march for days, carrying it on his back. He could lift it with one hand, feel its warm glow as if it was alive. For him that sword weighted nothing.

Now his hand trembles because he has to hold a simple steel sword. Samson takes a deep breath; the ringing in his ears gets louder. It feels like his head is on fire.

The creature growls again, and takes few wobbling steps towards him. Samson grips his sword. How pathetic that his first opponent in the Venatori’s company has to be this thing.

He glances back at Tevinters who seem completely unconcerned by this encounter. Seeing a ball of fire forming in Calpernia’s hands, he takes a step back; the gust of wind feels hot on his skin as the fireball flies right next to him. The spell misses him just barely, and hits the enemy in front of him. The creature shrieks, engulfed in flames. The smell of burning flesh hits Samson, and he has to resist the urge to cringe. _Magic always smells the same, like death._

One swing of his sword is enough, the creature falls lifeless on the floor, its body still burning. Calpernia looks at the now dead enemy, then her gaze moves to Samson. He wants to tell her something about casting spells in small spaces, but stops before even opening his lips. He could swear there's fire glistening in her eyes.

Calpernia passes him without a word, going through the door the creature was trying to get through. Samson curses in his thoughts; of course she won't wait for him. He goes after her, wiping sweat from his forehead.

Calpernia surely hears his footsteps thundering between the walls, but she doesn't look back even once. He follows her through a spacious hall, two Venatori soldiers right behind him. In the morning light everything around him is grey, devoid of colour, and all he sees is a ruin. He steps on a piece of a thick fabric. It’s one of the Red Templar banners, covered in dirt, its edges burned. Samson ignores the ache in is chest and moves forward before the pounding in his head can drive him mad.

Following Calpernia, he steps inside a large chamber, so bright Samson squints, unable to see anything at first. After few moments his eyes adjust so he can see they are in a round chamber, ominously empty, with a stone altar half buried under a big pile of rubble. The upper floor collapsed, leaving a gaping hole in the wall and ceiling. He can recognise the room though he remembers it differently.

On the wall behind the altar there’s a window with colourful glass somehow miraculously intact. He can recognise two Tevinter dragons coiled together, the Imperium’s symbol, surrounded by figures. The meaning behind it is lost to him.

He would like to know, Samson realises, observing how the rays of the waking sun make the dragons seem almost alive. He never bothered to ask anyone about the temple when the Red Templar occupied it, he merely accepted the Elder One’s order to move his forces here. Something changes when he looks at the ruins now. There’s no crystals growing here. There’s not much of the temple left. The dragons shine in the morning light. He’d like to know. And who’s better to ask than Calpernia.

It’s a foolish thought. He’s not going to change what happened to this place, or the people that built it. Or the Red Templars that died here when the Inquisitor attacked, hoping to find and kill him.

Calpernia walks closer to the altar, touches the cold stone with her gloved hand.  The sun filtering in through the colourful glass makes her skin shine golden.

Samson shields his eyes yet he can’t look away. Then she turns around, the light forms a halo around her body. For a moment she looks like she's on fire, rays of sunshine dancing on her skin.

Something lost and forgotten coils inside him, and he can almost feel a physical ache in his chest.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She brought him here for a reason, so what’s going to happen once she realises how useless he is?

The sun is high in the sky yet they’re still not leaving the Temple of Dumat. _Good thing the Inquisition doesn’t care about guarding this place_ , Samson thinks. He looks around to see nothing but ruin. _Lavellan would be a fool if she made her soldiers guard a pile of rubble…_

They shouldn’t stay here for so long, but Calpernia insists on searching everywhere. She asks him questions. Then she asks again, with more and more hints of irritation in her voice until she can’t hide how much his answers annoy her. It seems she wants to look under every rock, examine every piece of rubble they find.

_There’s nothing in here!_ , Samson wants to scream. He doesn’t. It would only make her more suspicious.

She checked the main floor twice already, then angrily ordered her Venatori bodyguards to again search the rooms downstairs. From the looks on their faces Samson can tell that even they’ve had enough. Hopefully it’s only a matter of time Calpernia sees how pointless this is.

_And then what?_ , he wonders. She brought him here for a reason, so what’s going to happen once she realises how useless he is?

He keeps a safe distance from Calpernia, just in case she decides to kill him on the spot. Some time later Samson begins to wonder if they’re ever leaving the temple. He feels tired, not that it’s anything new, though going back to the camp and getting some rest would be a nice change.

Finally the Venatori discover something they consider _interesting_ , at least it seems like it judging from the tone of their voices. Samson follows Calpernia downstairs, to the lowest level of the temple that not so long ago was filled with crimson crystals.

They speak in Tevene, pointing at the entrance to a chamber. There are runes carved on the wall, though they look nothing like the ones used by mages. Not that Samson is an expert; he can merely stare at all things Tevinter around him, understanding absolutely nothing.

Calpernia and the two men walk inside, and Samson follows them, confused. Then he remembers there was a room Corypheus used before the Red Templars came to the temple. It was the only chamber that wasn’t available for them, and probably the only place where red lyrium didn’t grow. The Elder One didn’t care to explain what exactly he was doing there, and Samson never bothered to ask.

He tells Calpernia all that, and as expected his answer isn’t satisfying. She gives him a look he already knows, distrust clear in her narrowed eyes.

The stone door is gone, and they can get inside without problems. The room is empty, perhaps the Inquisitor got here first, taking or destroying whatever she could find. If there’s one thing Samson knows about Lavellan it’s that she is merciless and thorough when it comes to destroying what she hates.

There's a trace of a magical ring drawn on the floor, its symbols smudged and unreadable. Calpernia kneels down, touching one of them with her hand. From the look on her face it seems she doesn't recognise it. She glances around as if expecting to see something else, but there's nothing here other than dust on the floor. Whatever Corypheus was doing in this chamber, he took his secrets to his grave.

Once the room is searched, Calpernia and her Venatori talk for a longer while. She sounds angry but the meaning behind their words is lost to Samson. They say _Dumat_ few times, though it’s Tevene so the word may have some other meaning. Listening to them chattering in their native language, Samson can’t shake the feeling he’s as useful to them as a pile of rubble on the floor.

They surely came to a conclusion that their whole expedition was pretty much pointless, and all they got was a tour around a ruin. Calpernia waves at the door, a signal for the two men to leave. Samson briefly wonders if he should leave as well, while he still can (then again, where would he go..?).

“There’s a magical ring on the floor,” she says, arms folded on her chest. “It was used to bind something, or someone. It was a _cage_. Why did the Elder One need it?”

Her intense gaze seems to pierce right through his skull. Samson takes a deep breath.

“I don’t know,” he says slowly. “I told you, the room was sealed. I never saw what was in here.”

She scoffs and turns away from him. Clearly she’s had enough of listening to his explanations. 

Calpernia looks down at the symbols on the floor, her brows furrowed. Samson’s not an expert on magic, obviously, but the magical ring that was drawn here doesn’t look like anything he’s seen in his life. Apparently Calpernia feels the same, considering she can’t decipher the symbols.

Minutes pass as she pointedly stares at the magical ring, and with every passing moment Samson feels the air gets dense with power. It’s subtle at first, just a feeling there’s a powerful mage nearby. Then it feels like a wave of hot air on his skin as if he was standing too close to the flames.

_Anger makes a mage more dangerous_ , Samson thinks, recalling what he was taught during his templar training. He shakes his head. He’s not a templar anymore, so it’s about time he stops thinking like one.

When Calpernia turns her head to look at him again, rage twists her face into an ugly mask.

“That thing you have. What is it?”

His hand idly touches the shape hanging from a string, hidden under his shirt.

“It was the only thing you had with you when my men found you. Give it to me!”

He takes a step back. She can’t be serious.

“It's nothing. It means nothing.”

It's true, this small metal bird really doesn't mean anything. Only Samson is a sentimental fool, clinging to something so meaningless. It adds to the weight of his guilt.

Calpernia, however, refuses to believe him.

“Is it a key? Something to break a magical seal?,” she presses, stepping forward. “What is it?!”

“It's _nothing_!”

With an angry growl she jumps forward, reaching for his neck. He steps back, but not fast enough, and she manages to grasp the metal bird in her hands. Samson has barely enough time to register the wave of magical force and a distinctive smell of the Fade. His reflexes are quick, fuelled by anger at her irrational outburst, at the way she demands answers from him when he already told her the truth. There’s enough of a templar left in him to know what she intends to do.

He grabs her wrist and pulls, the spell shatters, leaving behind a strong smell, like air just before the storm. Calpernia groans in pain; being forcefully dragged out of the Fade has to be unpleasant. She hisses something in Tevene, trying to get away from him but he grips her wrist hard enough to bruise. She's thin like a twig. It would be easy to snap her bones, and for a split second something urges him to do it.

“Calm down!” he says, silencing the voice in his head.

Calpernia answers in Tevene, an angry word full of hate. Her face is so close to his he could count all of her freckles if he wanted. With his free hand Samson grabs her other wrist. This only makes her angrier. Power radiating from her in waves of heat is so overwhelming it's difficult to breathe, making the templar in him horrified that he allowed a mage so much freedom.

In one last desperate attempt to get the thing she wants, Calpernia pulls the string once more with so much force it finally snaps. Samson stares at her fist holding the small metal bird. He grips her arms tighter, making her wince.

“Let go of me!” she commands, but her voice sounds weaker this time.

Or maybe he can't hear her anymore, the howling in his ears getting louder with every breath he takes. _Give it back!_

Calpernia stops wriggling and stands still. Anger is boiling in his veins, he wants her gone. He wants them both to disappear, so he may finally be free from the cacophony of sounds in his head, and the craving hiding in his thoughts.

She wants to take the only thing that belongs to him, the one meaningless thing that's his and his only. He'll break every bone in her body if he has to.

In a moment of clarity, he sees the expression on her face. For half a heartbeat he thinks there’s a glimpse of fear in her eyes. A chill creeps down his spine once he realises it’s the kind of fear he’s seen before. He was sent to kill an apostate; he could end someone else's life, and then hide behind his templar shield. He was ordered to find a runaway mage. When he dragged her back to the Circle, Knight–Commander executed her in front of other mages. _This will teach them a lesson_ , Meredith’s words still ring in his ears. It was righteous because that was what templars were supposed to do.

Calpernia could burn him alive if she wanted, yet there's something in him that makes her scared. He has long forgotten about the way terrified mages look at templars. It's all too familiar. And it makes him sick.

Samson lets go of her wrists, takes a step back, his whole body heavy with guilt.

“Take it,” he says, barely recognising his exhausted voice.

Calpernia looks at the shape in her hand as if only now registering it’s just a piece of metal. Not a key or a magical artefact. It’s just … nothing.

She takes a breath. Her magic subsides, the blush on her face slowly disappears.

“Who made it?”

“A friend,” he says after a beat. “He was a mage.”

She doesn’t seem surprised, still looking at the small shape in her hand.

“What happened to him?”

“I let him die for me.”

His voice is flat and distant, as if coming from someone else. Samson stares at the smudged symbols on the floor. He should have taken Maddox away from this cursed place. Instead he let him make a decision that meant his death – and for what?

_So the man who left him could live with guilt._ The pounding in his head returns, stronger and more persistent.

Calpernia is silent, all her anger gone. After a moment of hesitation, she reaches to one of the pouches she wears on her belt.

“It’s yours,” she says and places it in his hand.

She replaced the broken string with a thin silver chain. Maker knows what else she hides in these pouches. The thought would make him smile if he wasn’t so exhausted.

There’s one more thing to do.

“Are you going to kill me?”

Calpernia blinks, and from the look on her face it's clear the question surprised her greatly.

“You have no use of me now,” Samson adds. “I told you there’s nothing left for you here. You don’t need me.”

Every other sane person would beg for their life. Samson glances at the small thing in his hands. She won't have any use of a dead man walking.

“No,” comes her brief reply. Calpernia looks at him with immerse tenderness as if he were a sick animal ready for slaughter. “I'm offering you a choice.”

He wants to laugh. Everyone’s always offering him a _choice_.

“I served the Elder One because he seemed to understand Tevinter needs reforming. Perhaps it was all an elaborate act to get the Venatori's support. No matter what his real intentions were, my plans didn't change.”

“You think one person can change the whole country?”

A half smile flickers across her face. “I'm not alone.”

It would be easy to laugh, mock and ridicule. He’s seen how low great people can fall. Calpernia is far from greatness, yet there’s something in the way others follow her. There’s something in her eyes when she speaks about her plans, as if failure was not even an option.

“What now, then? Going north to Tevinter?”

“Not yet. First, we need to get to Val Chevin,” she replies without hesitation, making him wonder if she’s prepared for every possible situation. “Getting to the Imperium won’t be easy, but there’s someone in Val Chevin who can help us.”

Samson nods. She has a plan and something he desperately needs – a purpose.

It’s be foolish to believe her. But despite himself Samson clings to the idea that maybe there’s still something left for him in this world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: In this chapter I wanted to show that both Calpernia and Samson can get irrationally angry, though they have completely different reasons to feel that way.  
> You could say the first ‘arc’ of this story is done, though I’m not entirely sure how long this fic will be.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While traveling to Val Chevin Calpernia meets with one of her contacts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: descriptions of violence, slavery and abuse

 “Can I come with you?”

Talia feels her face growing hot. If she ever addressed her old master like that she would be whipped to make sure she never made the mistake of assuming she was worthy of speaking directly to him.

Lady Calpernia is no master. She’s surprised by the question, but there’s no trace of anger in her hazel eyes.

She left for the Temple of Dumat before the sunset, and returned in the late afternoon. She didn’t explain what happened there, and it wasn’t Talia’s place to ask. She seemed distraught, although she tried to hide it. Talia’s very existence used to depend on her ability to read other people’s moods. Even though she was excluded from the Game, she was clever enough to understand that every smallest gesture means something.

Calpernia only explained that they’re going south, and then to Tevinter. But first she needs to visit someone, an acquaintance of sorts, from what Talia understands.

_Let me be useful_ , Talia pleads in her thoughts. She’s just a simple servant girl yet if she could do something, anything, to help, then maybe her life wouldn’t feel so pointless anymore.

“I could use your help. If you want, of course,” Calpernia says after a moment of consideration. “I need to visit a man who’s a slaver. He has some sort of decency, and he never disappointed me… But still, are you sure you’ll be fine going there with me?”

Talia nods. Something squeezes her throat. It’s not fear, because fear she knows. It’s something else she doesn’t understand yet.

Calpernia gives her a reassuring smile. “Let’s go, then.”

The man lives near a small town, his house looks more like a farm than a slaver’s nest. There’s a skull of druffalo nailed above the front entrance. It looks so bizarre Talia stares at the curved horns in confusion. She saw druffalos in a children’s book once, they looked fluffy and nice. Why would anyone have a skull above their door is a mystery to her.

The stable is wide open and empty, only one horse grazing on a field behind it. There’s also a small shed next to it, its door locked, and an old doghouse without any dogs in sight. The farm seems abandoned but then the front door opens, and a man steps outside.

He’s short and muscular, dressed in light armour. Perhaps he’s getting ready to travel. He wears a dagger in a leather sheath on his belt; it’s most likely not the only weapon he has on him. There’s a hint of stubble on his handsome face. His lips curl into a smile, dark eyes fixed on Calpernia. He doesn’t look like a slaver – but then again Talia doesn’t know what did she expect to see.

She narrows her eyes at him, anxiously awaiting the moment he reveals his true nature. He appears friendly. Evil has many faces and it usually hides behind a mask. Her former master had friends who liked to torture servants for pleasure. At the first glance none of them looked _evil_. Only when they began their games, as they liked to call them, their eyes changed, faces so hideous even the masks they wore couldn’t hide their vile nature.

“Lady Calpernia, what a pleasure to see you! Come in, please.”

His voice is full of fake sweetness. _A snake that pretends he’s a mouse_ , Talia thinks, observing the man cautiously. He ignores her completely, his attention focused only on Calpernia.

“Caspar,” Calpernia gives him a nod. She sounds polite enough so he appears pleased.

They get inside the house, and with every step the wooden floor squeaks under their boots. The house is dirty but not because someone simply forgot to clean the mess. It’s as if the owner decided to live among piles of trash, completely giving up on cleaning.

Caspar guides them to the main room. A layer of dust covers almost every surface, there are various stains on the carpet and the couch. Talia wrinkles her nose, the smell of sour wine so strong as if someone bathed in it or used as perfume.  

There’s a door that leads to the kitchen, and from what she can notice it’s even messier than this room. _If this man is a slaver then why doesn’t he keep slaves to clean his own house?_

Caspar gestures a the couch but Calpernia shakes her head. “I don’t have time to sit and chat. You know why I’m here.”

“My dear lady, I remain your humble servant” he bows down, then smiles so sadly Talia almost believes him. “Had you come sooner, I’d have the finest slaves for you. I’m afraid that this time I have nothing for you. Will you forgive me, my lady?”

“Nothing?” A frown appears between Calpernia’s brows. “In your letter you assured me I can buy slaves from you. That every single one of them can read and write. That they’re well fed and healthy. So what happened to them?”

“They were good slaves indeed. But that was _days_ ago, my lady! I had to sell them all. A man must eat, and I needed coin.”

He looks at her, his eyes pleading for forgiveness. “There’s nothing left except for wine, I’m afraid. Perhaps I should hire a cook, what do you think, my lady? I sent my boys to town. They’ll be back soon, though,” his smile fails to hide the threat in his voice. “But please, stay for dinner. It’d be an honour.”

Calpernia gives him a measured look. She seems disgusted by the very idea of staying with him longer than necessary.

“Unfortunately I have to decline. It’s a long way to Antiva,” she lies without blinking.

“Antiva? Why would a lady such as yourself go to that barbaric country?”

“Personal matters.”

He chuckles. “Mysterious as ever. What about a glass of wine, then? As I said…”

“If you don’t have anything for me, then I’m leaving. I wasted enough time already.”

She turns on her heel, and Talia follows her outside. Caspar curses under his breath, quietly so Calpernia doesn’t hear (but Talia hears every word he says, and the anger in his voice), and goes with them perhaps hoping he can still persuade Calpernia to stay.

“Where did you keep them?”

“Pardon?” Caspar raises his eyebrows, surprised. This time his emotions are genuine, and he resembles a child caught in a lie.

“Where did you keep your slaves?” Calpernia repeats. She twirls around to face him, the frown on her face deepens.

“You wanted to sell me five people,” she says, her voice calm as ever. “All in good health, as you said. The house is too small, besides you wouldn’t let slaves sleep there.”

Talia glances around. Calpernia’s right; if he told her the truth, he had to keep them somewhere. The stable appears to be empty. Her eyes move to the shed. Only now she realises the door’s blocked with a heavy log. When her gaze returns to the slaver, she feels fear rising in her throat.

“Why does it matter?” Caspar laughs; it’s a hideous sound. “They’re all gone. When we meet next time I’ll have the finest – ”

“What’s in the shed?”

He hesitates and it’s enough for Calpernia to confirm her suspicions. Much to his horror, she walks right to the locked door.

“Don’t – !” he yells but it’s too late. With a single gesture of Calpernia’s hand the log blocking the door flies away. She grips the handles with her hands and opens the door wide, determined to see what’s inside. She takes a step back, covering her nose with her hand.

Talia urges herself to move forward, her curiosity stronger than her fear. A small gasp escapes from her lips, then she balls her hands into fists. She’s seen it before, and she’ll surely see it again because no matter how lucky she was to get free there are still hundreds left to live like things others can use and break.

The shed was carefully transformed into a cage, chains nailed to the walls. The stench is unbearable, the floor covered with hay, dirty and wet with blood and urine.

The worst part is that it’s not empty. There’s a woman sitting on the floor, wearing nothing but a short tunic. She’s not chained yet she doesn’t move as if there was no life in her left, no will to escape. When she sees them, she winces and covers her eyes with her hands. Before she was captured, she was surely considered pretty. Now, however, there’s not much left of her beauty, her skin marked with bruises, lips dry, hair messy and unwashed.

Talia takes a step back, unable to look at this poor woman any longer. Hearing the slaver’s voice behind her, something inside her wants her to scream.

“That’s a… That’s a special order for lord Roderick. He pays _double_ , you see. It took me a while to find him a girl for his tastes, and yet this is the best one I could get him. You won’t believe how difficult – ”

When Calpernia turns to him he immediately stops his blabbing. He looks her straight in the eyes as his hand grips his dagger.

“What about the others? What did you do to them?”

_There’s a reason mages are feared_ , Talia thinks, feeling a wave of hot air on her skin. It’s impossible to say where it’s coming from but it’s a sign of power being summoned to aid the mage who needs it.

“I told you, I had to sell them!” the slaver barks, his sweet voice gone. “What the fuck was I supposed to do? I barely escaped Celene’s chevaliers the other day!”

“You never mistreated your slaves before,” Calpernia says, more to herself than to anyone else, her voice no louder than a whisper.

“What can I say, times change. Even I lost my patience eventually.”

“No one’s going to buy _damaged goods_!”

“You’d be surprised, Lady Calpernia.” His lips curl into a bitter smile. “There are people, such as Lord Roderick, who simply don’t care. And I’m sure he’ll pay me more if I get him not one but three fine women.”

He jumps forward with the dagger in hand, too quickly for Talia to do something else than gasp in surprise. He raises his arm, ready to strike but the spell hits him just in time, throwing him in the air. He hits the stable wall with his back and lands on the dirty ground with a yelp of pain.

Calpernia is by his side in an instant. She steps on his hand, hard enough to make him whimper. Cursing, he lets go of the dagger that falls on the ground.

Even though Talia can only see Calpernia’s back, she remembers the expression on her face when she came to master Lyrio’s house.

Seeing Caspar lying on the ground brings her some sort of cruel satisfaction. There’s a part of her mind that demands justice. It makes her sure that if she had a knife in her hand she would slice his throat and watch him bleed.

“You did it all for coin?! Is it all you care about?” Calpernia asks in an angry voice.

“Do you think it’s easy for a slaver to live in this country?” he barks back, rage twisting his face into an ugly mask. “The chevaliers will have my head if I make the smallest mistake!”

“Don’t worry, they won’t get the pleasure.”

What happens next makes Talia take a step back. Another spell hits Caspar but this time flames materialise in thin air and engulf his body in a blink of an eye. Even standing away from him, Talia feels a wave of heat on her skin. _There’s a reason mages are feared_ , she repeats in her thoughts again. And yet what she feels is far from fear.

He screams, the sound so horrifying it sends a shiver down Talia’s spine. The voice soon dies in his throat, replaced by a hideous, gurgling sound. He wants to stand up but something holds him in place as if he was chained to the ground, so he tries to crawl. He almost touches Calpernia’s robe. She stands, unflinching, her gloved hand pointed at the man, commanding the fire to burn and burn until there’s no life left in him. It happens so quickly it’s difficult to believe that a mage can have so much power; that there are spells that can end one’s life in an instant.

Talia blinks, the smoke makes her eyes water. She mindlessly touches the scar in her face; she could swear she feels the blade cutting her skin again.

The slaver’s burning body lies lifeless on the ground. Calpernia lowers her hand, the flames subside. For a longer while she just stands there and looks at his remains.

_This is justice_ , Talia thinks. When master Lyrio’s body was consumed by flames, she refused to look away. It was horrifying, what the spell did to him, how his body changed when fire burned him, but she forced herself to look. She could never quite forget the smell of his burning flesh.

She shakes her head and forces herself to move. What’s done is done, there’s no point thinking about it now. She goes inside the shed, whispering calm words to the poor creature curled on the floor. She tries speaking Orlesian first, but the slave girl doesn’t react. Only when Talia switches to common, the girl glances at her with her eyes wide open. She’s dirty, her clothes are torn, but she looks healthy enough so she probably was sold here not so long ago.

Talia helps the girl get up and leads her outside. Calpernia is waiting for them; all her fury is gone, the expression on her face is calm. Behind her back Caspar’s body is still burning, thin strands of smoke going up in the sky.

“Thank you,” the girl whispers in common. Her voice has a strong accent Talia can’t recognize.

“Can you ride a horse?” Calpernia asks. There will be time for introductions later, now they need to get out of here before Caspar’s men return. “We have a camp not far from here. Do you want to come with us? We won’t harm you.”

The girl nods.

“I’m afraid I can’t heal you now,” Calpernia continues. “The only healing spell I know requires a lot of mana, and I used almost all of it to deal with this man.”

“You’re a mage, my lady?” the girl asks. From the way she says the word ‘mage’ it’s clear she fears them.

“Yes, I’m a mage. I won’t harm you.”

Talia opens her lips to say something but resigns. What does she really know about mages? Nothing. Her own stupidity makes her embarrassed.

Lady Calpernia was the first mage Talia met in person. There’s a reason mages are feared – but what is that reason exactly? She used to feel nothing but fear, yet now, when she’s in a company of a _mage_ , she’s not afraid anymore. The more she thinks about it, the more confused she gets.

Calpernia’s voice pierces through Talia’s jumbled thoughts. “What’s your name?”

“Name’s Yasha, my lady,” the girl says staring at the ground.

“How long have you been here?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know. It’s… difficult to say…”

“It’s alright. Caspar said there were others but he sold them earlier.”

 “At least a dozen. Or more. I’m sorry, my lady, I’m not sure.”

“A dozen! Did he keep them all in there?” Calpernia points at the shed.

“Only men, at first. He kept women in the house.”

Talia glances at the charred body with a new spark of anger in her heart.

“I can’t quite place your accent. Where are you from?”

“I was born in Ostwick, my lady.”

“Ostwick?” Calpernia blinks in surprise. “You’re a Marcher?”

Yasha nods. “I wanted to get to my family in Nevarra. It wasn’t safe in the Free Marchers anymore, my lady. I was captured on my way there. Then the slavers sent me to Orlais. They got good coin for selling slaves here.”

“It’s a profitable business after all,” Calpernia says, disgust clear in her voice. She takes a deep breath. “Let’s get back to the camp. We’ll take care of you.”

“I have nothing to repay you… But if you need gold, my lady, there’s lots of coin in his house,” Yasha says, eyes fixed on the ground. “Master Caspar kept me in his bedroom, I saw where he hides his gold.”

“Don’t call him that. He’s dead. You have no master.” Calpernia looks at the house for a moment, then her eyes return to the girl. “Take whatever you need, we’ll wait here.”

Yasha goes inside the house and gets back moments later, carrying two bags she offers to Calpernia. She’s also wearing a long coat. It’s too big for her, it probably belongs to one of the men who live here. At least the girl’s resourceful.

“Should we bury him?” Yasha asks.

Talia glances at the charred remains. It makes her sick, just looking at what’s left of that man, but she forces herself to look and remember.

“No,” Calpernia says, her voice stark. “Let’s go. We can get some rest once we return to the camp.”

They take the horse grazing on the field by the stable, his previous owner won’t need him after all, and get back to the camp

 

* * *

 

Once they’re back in the camp, away from that blighted place, and the girl, Yasha, is given clothes and food, Calpernia can have a moment for herself.

Betrayal is too strong of a word to describe what she feels, and yet it stings, just thinking that she considered Caspar someone worthy of her trust. He’s a slaver but he never lied to her before.

_He was_ , she corrects herself and can’t help but feel some sort of grim satisfaction.

She will return to Tevinter, leaving corpses behind. _Was it just?_ Samson’s words echo in her mind. _Yes, it was_ , she tells herself pretending there’s not a single spark of doubt in her heart.

She looks at the group of people sitting by the fire. Every one of them used to be a slave to someone. They follow her without questions, but what used to give her hope and strength starts to feel more like a burden. There was nothing in the Temple of Dumat; how foolish of her was to believe that the Elder One truly wanted to help her. What if they won’t find anything in Tevinter as well? What if all this is futile, and she’s leading them all to their death?

For a second it’s difficult to breathe, and Calpernia closes her eyes shut.

“You’re making friends everywhere you go.”

Startled, she turns her head to look at Samson. Only now she sees that he’s sitting away from the rest.

“Soon you’ll have an army,” he adds, oblivious to the storm of thoughts in her mind.

_Army of broken things._ “I do what needs to be done.”

“Well, that’s very noble of you,” he says. Calpernia isn’t sure if there’s a hint of mockery in is voice or not. “It’s just you never explained why you do it.”

She can’t quite understand why but something wants her to be honest with him. Or maybe she’s simply too tired to think of an excuse.

“I was just like them,” she says, her voice oddly emotionless. “I was a slave once.”

The moment Calpernia says the words, something like understanding appears in Samson’s eyes. She observes him carefully, ready for an attack though it’s foolish to even consider he might try to ridicule her. But it’s hard to forget how every nobleman looked at her when she joined the Venatori. How they plotted behind her back because they couldn’t bear the thought that an _incaensor_ , a slave with no family to support her, would be chosen as one of their leaders.

What matters so much in Tevinter, one’s status and name, doesn’t seem to matter here at all. Or maybe it doesn’t matter to _him_.

 “Mages can be slaves in Tevinter?”

_Of all possible questions, this is the one you want to ask?_ “Why do you sound so surprised? I was a slave first, back then I knew nothing about my powers.”

Samson nods. Even if he tried to wrap his head about it, he could never understand it. He’d have to see what happens at the very bottom of the Tevinter society where there are no people but things.

“Do templars have ways to determine if a child is a mage?” she asks, swaying away from the topic. Why would he care anyway about what happened to her…

“Well, parents are first to discover it because manifesting magic for the first time usually involves setting something on fire. Or someone,” he gives her a crooked smile.

Calpernia bites her lower lip to hide a smile. She’ll never forget the day when a book she was reading burst into flames. She was terrified. Masters had magic, not slaves.

“I heard there’s a ritual that shows if someone has magical power in them or not. You just had to take your kid to Knight – Commander, and they would do _something_. I don’t know what, I assume you learn about it when you get a promotion. Sadly, they kicked me out before I could get promoted, so…” he shrugs.

He’s always so nonchalant when he talks about himself it’s difficult to say if he cares about his past at all.

“Some folks really don’t want their kids to be mages,” Samson continues, unusually talkative for change. “But if you really want to do it with a mage, you gotta put dried embrium beneath your pillow. To scare the magic away, I guess? And when the kid is born you should put leeches on them. Then you need to burn the leeches once they’re done. But you can’t inhale the smoke.”

Calpernia stares at him in confusion. Surely, he must be joking.

Samson shrugs. “It’s all old wives’ tales, nothing more. Unless you’re allergic to embrium?”

“That’s nonsense, embrium does nothing to mages.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought…” he sighs. “What’s her story?”

Samson nods at Yasha. She looks considerably better now, and doesn’t seem scared by her new company, which is quite a surprise considering what she’s been through.

“Same as everyone else’s. By the way, she’s from Ostwick.”

“The girl’s a Marcher? Lady Calpernia, you never fail to amaze me.”

She gives him a look. He almost makes her believe he’s truly impressed.

“Did you drink your potion?”

Samson scoffs. “Really? You think I’m so uninteresting that’s the only thing you want to talk about with me?”

And there it is. A reason to argue. Calpernia grips the bridge of her nose. _Why do we talk if every conversation turns into a battle?_

“I’ll ask Lucius, then. He’s the one who makes it for you. You should show him some appreciation.”

“For what?” Samson asks with an angry frown.

She wants to remind him that not so long ago, he was certain she’d kill him because there was nothing left in the Temple of Dumat. That it was his decision to join her. That she _saved_ him when he was on the verge of death, and to this day he not only didn’t ask what was the cost of doing that, but also didn’t show any gratitude whatsoever.

She doesn’t say anything. Samson can glare at her all angry if he wants, Calpernia feels too tired to care.

“We’re going to Val Chevin. I suggest you get some rest before we leave.”

Maker knows she needs to rest because meeting with her possible ally will require all her strength.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: it’s an experiment of sorts, writing part of this chapter from a POV of a completely different character. Hope it works out good enough.  
> Samson mentions ways of “making sure your kid’s not a mage” – they come from World of Thedas vol. 2 (“How to prevent magic in its earliest stages” p.110).  
> And a special shoutout goes to [Eureka245](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Eureka234/pseuds/Eureka234) for the feedback!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Val Chevin Calpernia meets with a possible ally to ask for a favour.

If there is something the Orlesian Empire is known for, other than the Grand Game, it’s art.

Walking through a long gallery Calpernia has to resist the urge to stop and admire the paintings on the walls. She’s read books about the art of Orlais before, but actually seeing all this richness of style and colour with her own eyes makes her appreciate it even more. Some of the paintings are taller than her, surely worth a small fortune. Half of them are portraits of the royal families that used to rule the Empire. They all look flawless, for they want to be remembered as perfect.

One painting in particular catches her eye. It depicts the young Empress dressed in a splendid purple dress and a golden mask on her face. Two lion cubs are sitting by her feet, while in the background there’s a line of chevaliers, every single one of them wearing the crest of the royal family on their chests. It’s clear what the artist had in mind (or what he was most likely told to paint). Nobody cares how Celene got the crown. It’s important to present her as the brilliant ruler that she is, first and foremost.

Calpernia feels the eyes of the portraits following her every step as she walks through the empty gallery. Perhaps they know why she’s here. Maybe they know someone like her doesn’t belong here, that she’s not worthy to be among them. Even if they are merely paintings on the walls they show people who shaped this country, who are important. She, on the other hand, still has a long road ahead of her, and even when she succeeds it’s doubtful that one day some Tevinter artist will immortalise her on one of their paintings.

“I have to admit I'm quite surprised you decided to show up,” Calpernia says to the portrait of the former emperor, Florian. He sits on the throne looking almost bored or uncomfortable considering the armour he’s wearing.

Hearing a soft chuckle, Calpernia turns her head to see a woman dressed in a long, black cloak hiding her body from the neck down. Her pale face is lightly powdered, sharp eyes circled with a thin layer of kohl.

“I couldn't say no to someone like you,” says Florianne de Chalons, coming closer to stand right next to Calpernia.

She has a small smile on her lips. She is slender and tall, and smells of lilacs. The cloak she’s wearing hides whatever weapon she took with her; she’d be a fool if she came here without at least a dagger by her belt. _Hopefully the Duchess won’t need a blade._

“Like me?” Calpernia asks, one eyebrow raised.

“I heard rumours, nothing but whispers in the dark that not all Venatori are gone. You Vints aren’t that interesting, so I didn't care much about your petty games,” Florianne gives Calpernia an unapologetic smile. “But I have to congratulate you, my dear. I could not find anything on you. As if all _important_ Venatori were truly gone.”

Florianne's not wearing a mask, small wrinkles around her eyes are perfectly visible. The paintings lie, of course, showing nobles as beautiful, young, and flawless. Florianne seems as intriguing as the pictures albeit her little imperfections make her more human.

“Let me ask you,” the Duchess continues, speaking in the common tongue with a hint of an Orlesian accent. “What does a person who doesn’t exist want from me?”

Calpernia gathers her strength. If the Duchess refuses, there are other options. But without Florianne's help, Calpernia's situation in this country might get uncomfortable. She can’t kill slavers left and right, sooner or later someone will notice that people are disappearing. Empress Celene politely pretends Tevinter doesn’t exist, and as far as Calpernia knows Orlais doesn’t particularly care about relations with the Imperium. But if Calpernia were to be caught, Celene would surely notify Archon Radonis as well as the Inquisitor.

Since Calpernia doesn't have the luxury of choosing her allies now, Florianne de Chalons is her best –  and only –  option.

The Duchess was loyal to the Elder One because he promised her power and wealth. The Inquisitor ruined her plans. Hopefully Florianne believes in the old saying, enemy of my enemy is my friend. Not that Calpernia needs a _friend_ ; but an ally – yes. Ideally a wealthy ally such as Grand Duchess Florianne.

“I need a favour,” Calpernia says in a calm voice, careful not to let her desperation show.

“Oh?” the Duchess smiles. It's clear she's a person who enjoys having power over others. “You're asking me for help? Since when Vints are so willing to work with Orlesians? The Venatori aren't as resourceful as I thought.”

A small spark of magic appears in Calpernia's hand to disappear a second later. As much as she detests people who consider themselves superior to others, she needs Florianne's support.

“I accept the risk, of course. I’m well aware that you work for the Inquisition.”

Florianne's cheek twitches slightly. If she wore a mask, it would go unnoticed. “Not anymore.”

“Then why Celene allows you to live?” Calpernia presses. She shouldn't push Florianne further, but she should at least show the Duchess she knows the situation well.

“Celene doesn't control everyone in this country,” Florianne replies in a cold tone. “De Chalons have just enough power and influence left that we may live freely without the Empress watching our every move.”

Something in Florianne's eyes changes, suggesting a deep grudge that can never be forgotten. She wanted to kill the Empress, failed, and is now sentenced to live in shame. Her brother was exiled, she truly has no one else left in the whole Orlesian Empire.

“But I presume you didn't come here to ask me about Celene? What do you need from me, my dear?”

“I need to get to Cumberland, then Nevarra,” Calpernia states, staring Florianne in the eyes. It's time for honesty, although it doesn't mean the woman has to know everything.

“You’re going north to Tevinter, I presume?”

Calpernia merely nods. If she’s lucky she can feed her with half–truths without Florianne getting suspicious.

“Rumour has it the Venatori were decimated, but I imagine you're not alone.”

“I need a safe passage for a small group of people.”

Florianne scoffs. “You want to storm Tevinter with a _small group of people_? Why not stay in Orlais instead? Having a talented mage by my side would be extremely helpful.”

“I never told you I'm a mage.”

“Oh, please, that was just a guess you just confirmed,” the Duchess looks most pleased. “Little birds told me a group of Tevinters are staying in the city. I must admit, my first thought was that it was some poor soul hiding from the Grey Wardens after that incident in the Adamant Fortress. Vints weren't exactly popular before, but now...” she shakes her head.

“Consider my offer, dear. Stay in Orlais, I'll find a little house for you, and you'll live like a true lady. Occasionally helping me, of course.”

Calpernia narrows her eyes. “You can't be serious.”

“Oh, I know you Vints hate Orlais for whatever reasons, but it's a wonderful country. After the war Celene is busy fixing her own problems, so the possibilities for people like you and me are endless. You could do whatever you want.”

“I didn't come here to – ”

“Hear my offer first, before you dismiss it,” Florianne interrupts, and Calpernia feels her face growing hot. “Whatever's waiting for you in the Imperium, it’s not worth it. If you return to Tevinter, wealthy and powerful people won't hesitate to silence you before you even get to speak. Backstabbing is a national sport in Orlais, but at least we know how to do it with style. Why do you want to end in the gutter, when you could stay here instead?”

She looks at Calpernia, awaiting her answer, something like hope glistening in her eyes. Calpernia regards her for a moment. The offer is preposterous, yet perfectly understandable. Florianne de Chalons is alone, an influential person once now a pariah. She doesn't need supporters in Tevinter, she needs them here, by her side, to show everyone she's still an important figure in the Game. _No wonder she is so desperate for a new ally._

Too bad Calpernia has completely different plans. She needs to be careful about rejecting this offer. Florianne hasn't promised her anything yet.

“What awaits me in Tevinter – ”

Hearing footsteps approaching she abruptly stops. She turns her head to the side, noticing someone walking towards them. Calpernia looks back at Florianne who doesn't seem surprised in the slightest.

“We are in a public place. It would be suspicious if we didn't see any guards.”

“His timing is awfully convenient,” Calpernia hisses.

The place was supposed to be empty. She takes a step back, ready to defend herself if needed. The man is coming closer. Even if the Duchess didn't arrange this, the man may stop and ask what they are doing here at this hour. Florianne seems perfectly calm, while panic raises in Calpernia's chest. One question will lead to another, and being questioned by a guard is something she needs to avoid if she wants to stay here incognito. Although Empress Celene is dealing with her own problems, she would surely send word to the Inquisition if she captured a suspicious Tevinter in one of her cities.

The man's footsteps echo between the walls. He’s coming closer, the crest of de Valmonts visible on his chest, silver mask covering half of his face.

“Quick, give me a kiss,” Florianne whispers, reaching out to touch Calpernia's face.

Calpernia wants to protest, eyes wide, but before she can say a word, Florianne pulls her close for a kiss. Her lips are soft, the scent of lilacs sweet, and the kiss is surprisingly gentle and tender. For a moment she gives in, not entirely sure how she should react.

The guard walks by, ignoring them completely. If Calpernia looked at him, she would notice a smirk on his lips as he briefly glanced at the two women.

When the kiss ends Florianne has a smug look on her face. Her hand moves down, touching Calpernia's robe with her fingertips. She licks her lips with a tip of her tongue, looking Calpernia straight in the eyes. The Duchess seems very pleased; Calpernia hates her.

“Was that necessary?” Calpernia whispers, her face red.

“Of course,” Florianne says without the smallest hint of embarrassment. “Now, about our little agreement...”

“I'm _not_ staying in Orlais.”

The Duchess seems rather disappointed. “Pity.”

“Will you help me get to Cumberland?” Calpernia presses, forcing calm into her voice.

“I will,” Florianne says after a beat. She studies Calpernia's face like a hawk, perhaps looking for a weak point. “We shall discuss the details in a different place. But first you need to tell me something.”

“What is it?” Calpernia hisses. She's had enough of this woman, of Orlais, of everything. The sweet smell of lilacs makes her slightly dizzy.

“What's your name, my dear? We haven’t been properly introduced, I’m afraid. If you think I enjoy kissing strangers...” she smiles. “Well, let's say I'd like to know the name of the woman I need to smuggle out of my country.”

Calpernia blinks in surprise. Once again Grand Duchess Florianne proves to be a skilful player of the Game.

“My name is Calpernia,” she replies, hot blush prickling her skin.

“What a lovely name.”

For once Florianne sounds honest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I like writing Florianne. There’s something fascinating about her. Then again, I have a problem called ‘I like characters that have approximately five minutes of screentime’.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before leaving Val Chevin Calpernia and Florianne discuss important matters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter contains spoilers for Magekiller about Calpernia and Marius. The comic isn’t really that good but the first three issues take place in Tevinter, so give it a try if you’re interested.  
> I also included headcanons connected to Paying the Ferryman.  
> And the last thing I wanted to say is that I decided to occasionally draw ‘fanarts’ for this story. They’ll be also published on [my tumblr](http://flore-purpureo.tumblr.com/) if anyone’s interested.

The next day Calpernia once again leaves her companions to speak with her ally. Although truth to be told, she would rather avoid talking to Florianne de Chalons ever again. But beggars can’t be choosers, and lately Calpernia feels very much like she’s no more important than one of the beggars that Minathous is so full of.

Interestingly enough, the Duchess isn’t hiding in some secret location outside the city. Calpernia goes to a house in the very heart of  Val Chevin, near the main square. A maid guides her upstairs where she finds Florianne sitting on a balcony, enjoying early morning sun.

The mask on her face is made out of lace, shaped like wings of a butterfly. She’s wearing high–waisted trousers and a blouse that should be buttoned up so it doesn’t reveal so much cleavage. The Duchess most likely left it like this on purpose since she enjoys toying with her guests. Or she wants to make others notice the beauty mark on her right breast. Possibly both. If she wore something like this outside her own house, she’d cause quite a scandal. But then, aren’t scandals what Florianne truly enjoys?

 “Are you hungry?” the Duchess gestures at the table. There is a tray of pastries, pieces of apples and plums, and a bottle of wine with two cups.

Calpernia shakes her head. “I’d rather discuss our agreement.”

Florianne rolls her eyes. “You Vints, always so formal. Could you at least pretend you enjoy my company? Look at me, I’m not complaining.”

Calpernia sits down, hoping she wasn’t invited here only to amuse Florianne with the latest gossip. _Excluded from the Game, she must be so dreadfully bored._

_ _

“Tell me something, my dear Lady Calpernia. Rumour has it the Venatori leaders were assassinated by the Archon's orders.”

“As you see I’m the one who survived.”

“And that is exactly my question,” the woman smiles, pouring wine to the cups. “How? Did you have a secret agreement with the Archon? Take out your rivals so you could seize all power for yourself?”

“This is very Orlesian way of dealing with problems. Do you think I'd betray my people?”

“I think you can see an opportunity and take it,” Florianne says, and takes a sip of wine from her cup. “Only a fool wants to sacrifice his own life for ideals.”

Calpernia takes the other cup to taste the wine. She presses her lips together, not wanting to show she doesn’t quite appreciate the sour taste.

“So how did you survive? Did you perhaps seduce the man sent to kill you? Though from what I've seen, you're not very skilled at seduction...”

 “Why do you consider this topic so interesting?” Calpernia asks, brows furrowed. She lets a hint of anger slip into her voice. She shouldn’t show any strong emotions that could be considered weakness. Florianne specialises in finding weak points in her opponents. Calpernia should remember to watch her every word and gesture when the Duchess is close.

Florianne’s words are enough to make Calpernia think about memories she doesn't want to share with anyone. It was truly an impossible coincidence that the person sent to kill her, a _magekiller_ , was also someone she considered…. Dear, perhaps. She couldn’t tell if her own memories of the time she spent with Marius in their master’s house were in fact true.

Maybe the memories she has in her mind are an idealised version of events, because sometimes it’s hard to believe she could be simply _happy_. And that someone would notice a person like her. When they met in that bathhouse, of all possible places, he was glad to see her. Surprised, of course, but glad, and that was the only thing that mattered. _What would you think of me now?_

At times her thoughts drift to him, wondering if he's still alive. _Impossible_ , her rational mind says. Yet something inside her aches, hoping that perhaps he survived against all odds.

“We’re allies now, are we not?” Florianne’s voice brings Calpernia back to reality. “I’d like to know more about you, my dear.”

“There’s nothing interesting about me.” She stares at her cup; the woman’s condescending voice makes Calpernia feel like a stubborn child.

“Oh, I respectfully disagree.”

Her amused smile is enough to tell Calpernia the Duchess likes toying with her. _Sitting in your rich mansion all day alone must be very boring_ , she thinks. Florianne doesn’t have a choice but to stay away from the public eye, since the Empress made sure to mark her as a traitor for the rest of her life.

Calpernia takes a breath. “I survived because I had to. Then I made a mistake of trusting the Elder One. Now I need to act before it’s too late. “

“I do like your determination.”

Florianne pours herself another cup of wine.

“I have one more question for you, my dear,” the Duchess gives her the sweetest fake smile Calpernia’s ever seen in her life. “There’s a rumour about a certain, um, incident that’s been happening in the Empire for quite some time now. In other countries as well, perhaps, but I’m only interested in what’s going on in Orlais.”

Calpernia lets out a sigh. And she thought that arguing with Samson is tiresome…

“Slavery is forbidden, thanks to our kind Empress Celene, but as we all know slavers make good coin in Orlais. Especially when it comes to selling and buying elven slaves. Oh, pardon, not slaves. _Servants_.”

Calpernia takes another sip, knowing well where this conversation is going.

“Imagine my surprise when I heard that recently many slavers met their death. Not only slavers, but good Orlesian nobles as well. How scandalous! Do you know anything about it, Lady Calpernia?”

“Do _you_ mistreat your servants, Florianne?” Calpernia asks, her voice innocently sweet. “If not, then there’s nothing you should worry about.”

“Oh, you’re just marvellous!” the Duchess laughs. “I wish I could travel with you to Tevinter only to see you challenge the Archon himself. Radonis has no idea what’s coming for him.”

Calpernia’s smile disappears from her lips. As long as they both can pretend they’re friends, Florianne won’t be a problem. _It’s all part of another game for her_ , Calpernia thinks. She can only hope they’re on the same team.

“Now, let’s get down to business.” Florianne waves her hand at her maid who after a moment brings a small wooden chest. She sets it down on the table next to the tray with untouched food.

“This is my… _investment_ in your noble cause,” the Duchess says, opening the chest. Calpernia peeks inside to see that it’s filled with gold and papers.

 “Obviously you’re going to need coin for your little expedition. I cannot spare more but I believe this is enough to get your little band of misfits across Nevarra to Tevinter.”

Calpernia lets out a sigh. _Little band of misfits? Oh, you have no idea…_

“These documents state you are employed by Duke Francois LaCroix. The poor man’s sick and will most likely die in a month or so. I was quick enough to buy his estate including his fine winery. Years ago he spent a year near the city of Nevarra, and opened another winery there. Now you’ll pretend that he likes to buy it back. That’s essentially your cover up story. Not that anyone would ask, but just in case tell your people what to say if asked.”

“You certainly thought of everything,” Calpernia says. She has to admit she’s rather impressed.

“Of course,” Florianne smiles. “Here’s another fact you may consider interesting. There’s a caravan of merchants leaving the city tomorrow morning. They’re travelling via the Imperial Highway all the way to the Silent Plains. One of them is a certain friend of mine who wouldn’t say no to hiring more servants to help him on this tiring journey. If you’re interested in the details, they’re all on one of the documents I included.”

Her eyes linger on her cup as she traces its rim with her finger. “Just remember that something will go wrong no matter how well you plan everything.”

When her gaze returns to Calpernia, there’s a spark of determination in her cold eyes. “What I want in return is a favour. Perhaps one day I’ll come to you asking for help. You will answer my call, then I’ll consider your debt paid.”

Just the thought of what Florianne could want from her makes Calpernia shudder, but having no other options she can’t decline the offer.

“Before you leave Val Chevin, do watch the spectacle the Royal Theatre prepared for the good people of Orlais. You probably saw the stage they built on the square below.”

Florianne has a smile on her lips. Her eyes, however, are cold and merciless.

“Plebs loves it. Watching it reminds me that nothing matters more than victory. When you win, you get to write history.” She looks at the wine in her cup.  “When you fail then, well… You’re silenced forever.”

Florianne raises her cup in a toast. “So let us pray you won’t fail, Lady Calpernia. If not the Maker, then perhaps one of your dragon gods will listen to our prayers.”

 

* * *

 

As agreed, Talia is waiting for Calpernia near Florianne’s house. When the servant girl sees her, she lets out a sigh of relief.

“Is everything alright?”

“Better than expected, to be honest.” Calpernia pats a bag she’s carrying on her shoulder containing the small wooden chest filled with gold Florianne so generously offered.

“Before we go back…” Calpernia hesitates. Talia gives her a nervous look, so she quickly finishes before the girl gets more worried. “Did you see the stage on the main square? It’s for a spectacle prepared by the actors from the Royal Theatre.”

“I heard people talking about it. Would you like to watch it, Lady Calpernia?”

“If you don’t mind…”

“Not at all. Though the play is about the Inquisitor, or so the posters say.”

Remembering Florianne’s words, Calpernia can’t help but feel even more intrigued. “Let’s watch it, then. Hopefully I’ll never get the chance to meet the real Inquisitor.”

About half an hour later the play begins. The stage is decorated with heavy curtains, nothing too amazing. It’s a cheaper version of entertainment for people who can’t afford going to one of the theatres Celene always praises so much.

The first actor comes on stage, wearing fake armour, with a sword in her hand. She shows the audience her left hand with a green shawl wrapped around it. Something like a sound of thunder comes from behind the curtain, and people gasp, amazed by this fake Mark on the Inquisitor’s hand.

As far as Calpernia knows, the Inquisitor is a Dalish elf. It seems that in this spectacle Lavellan’s race is completely ignored, as the actress who plays her is a human woman, wearing nothing that could signify she’s supposed to play an elf. Like Florianne said, history is written by winners. If Celene doesn’t want the simple people of Orlais to know the one who saved her is a knife–ear , then the whole country pretends that’s the truth.

When an actress with golden lion embroidered on the front of her dress walks on stage the crowd cheers. It’s Empress Celene, gracefully waving at her loyal subjects who love her so much. Calpernia feels sick to her stomach.

The Inquisitor talks to the Empress, then falls down on her knees to kiss Celene’s hands. The crowd cheers even louder this time. Calpernia watches this with growing irritation. Simple minds want simple pleasures. Nobody cares about the historical accuracy when the spectacle is entertaining.

Calpernia glances up at the balcony where she sat with Florianne not so long ago. _If people knew the Duchess is here they’d tear her into pieces._

After the Inquisitor goes behind the curtain, another actress appears on stage. Calpernia blinks in surprise. The woman introduces herself as the Grand Duchess Florianne, that much Orlesian Calpernia can understand. The mask she’s wearing looks more like a face of a gargoyle, hideously twisted, while her clothes make her look like a common whore. _The message is clear_ , Calpernia thinks and lets out a sigh.

When Florianne gives a fiery speech, accusing finger pointing at Celene, people are horrified as if the real ruler was in danger. The actors are convincing, Calpernia has to give them that.

Florianne raises a wooden knife, the crowd gasp in shock. Then the Inquisitor arrives, strikes her with a wooden sword, and throws a red shawl on her. The crowd cheers as the evil Duchess lays unmoving. It’s yet another lie since the real Florianne de Chalons not only survived this encounter but also saved herself by agreeing to work for the Inquisition. Calpernia glances at Talia who observes the spectacle with eyes opened wide.

The Inquisitor kneels before Celene, and she pulls her close like a mother embracing her child. She gives a speech, her voice full of pride. The message is clear even for Calpernia who doesn’t speak Orlesian. Our good Empress saved the country with the help of the Inquisitor. Rejoice!

The crowd applauds, throwing flowers at the stage. All actors get on stage and bow down, waving at people who gathered to witness this version of events. Calpernia turns away, disgusted. Nobody cares what’s true and what’s not as long as the audience is entertained.

 

* * *

 

There’s no calendar among her books, but once in her life Calpernia is glad that she doesn’t mark the dates. It would only depress her, seeing how another day passes and she’s nowhere close Tevinter.

Her journey back home is taking so long, _too long_ , but then nothing is easy in this world, especially for a person like her with no important connections or considerable power. Calpernia doesn’t consider herself insignificant, at least she tries not to think about herself like that. Because on some level it still hurts, thinking that her actions don’t mean anything just like they didn’t when she was a slave living in her master’s house, sleeping in the stables because other slaves couldn’t stand her.

The Elder One promised her to restore Tevinter, yet in the end he was focused on his own goals, like everyone else. _No wonder the Imperium is rotten if everyone thinks only about their own needs…_

She finishes the letter quickly, before her bitterness shows in the words she’s writing, folds it neatly and wraps a ribbon around it. There’s no more wax she can use to place seals on her letters, so she has to use something else instead. Calpernia takes another letter she finished earlier, gets up from an old chair and goes to the main room of the house her _group of misfits_ chose for a hideout.

While Florianne can live in the very centre of the city, Calpernia and her companions have to occupy a small ruined house on the outskirts of Val Chevin. The place looks like it could crumble any moment, but it’s among other shabby buildings where the poor live, so no one pays much attention to them. It’s the part of the city one doesn’t hear about when visiting. There are so many splendid places, art galleries or gardens full of flowers. Only nobodies excluded from the Game live in this part of Val Chevin. They don’t wear masks, their faces looking raw, vulnerable.

No one seem to notice their arrival, and Calpernia hopes they can leave the city before someone becomes suspicious why a group of people chose to stay in this place. _Like rats fleeting from one place to another._

She looks around the main room where her companions rest. Samson’s playing cards with the two elves, Ontario and Sorren. From the look on his face it’s clear he’s losing, though it’s uncertain what’s at stake. Maker knows how did they get the cards. Maybe they found them among the rubble and broken pieces of furniture the place is filled with. Yasha and Talia are eating; they don’t have much to choose from but no one’s complaining. The younger girl rescued from the slaver doesn’t talk much but from what she told Calpernia it seems she’d like to go back to her homeland. Once they get to Cumberland, Calpernia will make sure to find the girl a place on a ship that will take her to Ostwick. No wonder she wants to leave this blighted country, the poor thing’s been through a lot.

Something anxiously stirs in Calpernia’s heart. She’d like to capture this moment, remember every small detail about the people who chose to accompany her.

Seeing her, Sorren gets up, leaving his cards on the ground. The game is over; Ontario’s face lights up with a smile while Samson seems rather grumpy. Perhaps the templar lost, but it matters little now as Calpernia speaks to Sorren, handing him two letters and a small bag of coins.

“Remember that your task is to pass the letters to my agent. If she doesn’t come for whatever reasons, or if you sense that something’s not right, then get to Cumberland as quickly as possible.”

“I know, Lady Calpernia,” he says, pronouncing her name in an odd way, with a strong Orlesian accent. “I know what I have to do. We shall see each other in Nevarra.”

_Stay safe_ , she wants to tell him but for some reason can’t. What if she never sees him again? The weight of her doubts and worries is pulling her down but she refuses to bend her back.

The elf gives her a smile, pats Ontario, his best friend, on the back, and then he’s gone without saying any goodbyes. Perhaps he knows that the letters he carries are more important than his life – because what one life means when it comes to the salvation of a whole nation?  It’s cruel to think like that; Calpernia doesn’t want to be cruel, but something tells her that one day she’ll have to be.

“We’re leaving Val Chevin on the morrow,” she addresses the rest of the group. She already told them that the Grand Duchess Florianne agreed to help. Now they need to know about the details.

“Lucius, Berard and Talia,” Calpernia glances at each of them, noticing hints of worry in their eyes. Especially the Orlesian girl looks uneasy, as if she wished to say something but didn’t have the courage. “I’m giving you enough coin so you may travel freely. You’ll join a group of merchants. One of them will hire you as servants. I hope you don’t mind pretending to serve that man for a while.”

“Are you sure about this, Lady Calpernia?” Talia asks, distraught. She looks almost pleading, making Calpernia wonder if she’s not making a mistake.

“I planned everything, there’s no need to worry,” she says, trying to sound reassuring.

“What if I could… come with you?” The girl looks down for a second as if embarrassed by her own words.

“I’ll be fine. And my dear friends will take good care of you.”

Calpernia turns to the two Tevinter men. Berard simply nods; he never talks much. Lucius, on the other hand, assures her that they’ll do as she instructed.

“Don’t worry, my lady,” he says as if she could read her thoughts and see how worried she truly is. “We’ll meet again and all go to the Imperium together. It’ll be interesting to see how Minrathous changed while we’ve been gone.”

He gives her a reassuring smile. Even if he feels uncertain, Lucius pretends everything’s perfectly fine just so she won’t have to worry more.

Calpernia won’t ever forget the day she met Lucius and Berard, and how horrified they looked at what she did to their master. It all happened in Minrathous in front of a statue of Darinius, or the Ferryman as some called him. Back then they both served as magister Anodatus' bodyguards, wore helmets that covered their faces, and couldn't make a move unless their master commanded them. Anodatus had known her before, and couldn't bear the thought that Calpernia wasn't a slave anymore. He dared to attack her; to her own surprise, she won.

Calpernia's hands were shaking as she held her staff, fingers tingling with power that tasted like smoke on her tongue. The smell of burning flesh almost made her gag, yet she was filled with joy. She faced her enemy and defeated him. No magister could control her anymore.

She saw the two bodyguards standing silently, too shocked to react as their master howled in pain. She asked them about their names but they were silent, too afraid to speak to a woman who injured Anodatus  so gravely. One more look at the crying magister, smoke coming from his burned hands, and they decided to follow her. Perhaps they wanted to go with her because they believed in her words and heard the passion in her voice when she lectured Anodatus that one day every slave will walk freely.

And they are still with her now, not as someone's slaves but as free men.

She glances at Samson, who’s sitting silently, offering no comments as if he simply accepted her every decision. They’re getting closer to the Free Marches though he hasn’t mentioned going back to Kirkwall even once. _Why would he?_ _There’s nothing left for him in that city_ , Calpernia thinks with a spark of pity.

She fears that perhaps there’s nothing waiting for her in Minrathous as well. Maybe once she gets there she will realise that she’s not so different than Samson after all, two insignificant figures clinging to some meaningless ideals that don’t matter in the grand scheme of things.

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Consequences of Calpernia's actions catch up to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: blood & violence; from now the story is rated M

Cumberland is yet another port city filled with the stench of fish and other _gifts_ from the Waking Sea. Calpernia’s never been particularly fond of seafood. She was made to walk the streets of Minrathous, bringing change to her homeland, not to hide between stalls with oysters and seaweed. The very thought of eating fish makes her stomach twist into a knot.

The only place where they can stay without being questioned is a small tavern in the docks. _Silver Mermaid_ it’s called, owned by a fat bald man who speaks with a strong Orlesian accent. He demands so much coin as if he wanted to sell them half of a palace.

The place smells like fish, the floor’s sticky. Calpernia can’t shake the feeling that once she arrives in Tevinter all her clothes will reek of fish. _Not Tevinter’s Champion, but Tevinter’s Fishwife they will call me_ , she thinks with a sour look on her face.

Samson gets oddly excited about something called fish and egg pie. It has not only fish but also raisins in it, and it looks like the greatest offence against humanity.

“Tastes just like in that tavern in Lowtown,” he says with a smile after tasting a piece. “Never thought a dish from Starkhaven would be popular in Nevarra.”

“Well, we are close to the Free Marches,” Calpernia mentions giving him a curious glance.

It doesn’t look like he even considers going back to Kirkwall. He wouldn’t leave in the middle of the night, at least she hopes that he wouldn’t. She offered him a choice and Samson agreed to go with her. Just in case Calpernia makes a mental note to herself to watch him closely. What reason he has to stay loyal to her? None, really, other than the fact that she saved him from certain death.

Calpernia rents two rooms, one for her and Yasha, the other for Ontario and the templar. Hopefully no one minds sharing a bed or sleeping on the floor. Although they have plenty of coin thanks to Florianne’s generous offer, renting more rooms would not only attract possible thieves but also make the owner suspicious. People who have a lot of gold choose taverns in a better part of the city.

Later that day Sorren arrives with a letter. He looks fine, and after they greet, the elf explains that everything went well.

“I’ve got a message for you, Lady Calpernia,” he says, handing her a folded letter. “From the Sparrow.”

She nods, then looks at the seal on the paper. It’s from her agent who closely observes the Inquisition. It’s a dangerous task but thanks to this one person Calpernia is well informed about Lavellan’s decisions. Since the Inquisition’s spymaster is called Nightingale, as a joke of sorts Calpernia’s agent calls herself Sparrow. As long as she doesn’t get caught, names aren’t that important.

“I cannot thank you enough,” she tells Sorren. Just seeing him back with her brings her hope. “Get some well–deserved rest. Order whatever you want. The owner claims he has some good Orlesian wine.”

Once she’s back in her room, Calpernia breaks the seal to read the letter. For every other person the message is nothing but a description of the Storm Coast, but the Venatori developed many useful ways to hide the true meaning of their letters. After so much practice, she can easily decipher the code.

The Inquisition is organising an expedition to the Deep Roads. _What for?,_ she wonders. Dwarves have to be in a dire need if they asked the Inquisitor for help. Perhaps Lavellan is greedy to conquer what lies below, since she already has so much power everywhere else.

_Except Tevinter_ , Calpernia thinks with a smile. As much as the Archon pretends he’s a friend of the Inquisition, he’ll never allow them to deal with Tevinter’s problems. Even if the country was in the middle of a civil war, Radonis would deal with it all himself without asking the Inquisitor for help.

With a thought she makes the letter burst into flames in her hand. She gets downstairs to the main area of the tavern. This evening the place isn’t crowded, though she can spot the regulars, like the old man snoring by the table in the corner. He looks like one of the men who basically live in taverns like this one.

She wants to simply sit and relax, order tea ( _if_ they have tea here, though if they do it probably tastes like sewer water), and get something to eat. Something edible, certainly not that fish pie.

Then she notices that not all her companions are sitting by a table, and her brows knit.

“Have you seen Yasha?” Calpernia asks, looking around. She’d like to ask the girl if she wants to accompany her tomorrow. She considers staying in Cumberland for a day or two. Finding a reliable captain may prove difficult, thankfully she has enough coin to buy a place on a ship to Ostwick.

“She’s resting, I think,” Ontario says. “Upstairs in your room, Lady Calpernia.”

She was there moments ago but the room was empty. Maybe Yasha walked into some other room? The place isn’t exactly safe, so what if something happened to her?

“I’ll go check on her,” Calpernia lets a hint of worry slip into her voice.

“She’s fine,” Samson says. “We Marchers are tough.”

“Orlesians are tough as well,” Ontario points out with a smile. Sorren nods in agreement.

Samson scoffs. “Maybe Orlesian _elves_ but the rest with their powdered faces and fancy masks? Don’t think so!”

Calpernia leaves, not in the mood to listen to this conversation. As surprising as it is, she’s glad they seem to get along. Now, however, she needs to check on Yasha, just to make sure that nothing happened.

The girl’s been eager to do every small thing to help, most likely hoping she can repay Calpernia for liberating her. When Calpernia suggested finding a ship that could take her back home, Yasha wouldn’t stop thanking her.

Calpernia opens the door to the other room they rented, but it’s empty. Confused, she goes back to her room. She glances around to see that everything is as she left it. Trying to ignore the anxious feeling in her gut, she considers going to ask the owner if he’s seen her missing companion.

Then the floor squeaks, and Calpernia turns around to see Yasha at the door.

 “We’re having dinner downstairs, if you want to join us,” she suggests, relief clear in her voice. The girl doesn’t reply as she steps inside the room, closing the door behind her back.

In an instant the air in the room changes, getting thicker somehow, making it harder to breathe. Yasha jumps forward with her hand outstretched as if she wanted to hit Calpernia in the face, but she never touches her. Azure blue light shines around Yasha’s hand, and for one second it gets so bright Calpernia closes her eyes.

What she feels is like a cold knife slicing through her soul.

Calpernia stumbles backwards, eyes opening wide as she stares in shock at her own hands. All her magic disappears behind something that feels like an impenetrable barrier separating her from the Fade. Her head spins, knees shake as she struggles with the overwhelming feeling of dread.

She has no time to focus on her fear as Yasha moves quickly with a dagger in her hand. For one agonizing second Calpernia is unable to move, paralyzed by her own helplessness. What she sees in Yasha's eyes is pure rage. It's terrifying. And it makes her unrecognizable as if some vile demon possessed this timid young woman.

Calpernia backs away, trying to fight with the weakness that threatens to overpower her. Yasha attacks again, growling like a rabid animal. The blade cuts through the fabric of Calpernia’s robe, the tip of the dagger scratching her skin. The shallow cut stings. The girl in front of her looks nothing like that weak, poor creature Calpernia found in the slaver’s nest. _It was all an act_.

She attacks again, but this time Calpernia hits her in the hand just in time to avoid the blade. The dagger falls from Yasha’s hands, and in a moment of clarity Calpernia can notice they’re trembling. Enraged, the girl pushes Calpernia away. Anger colours her face red.

Calpernia loses her balance and falls, hitting the hard floor. She whimpers in panic. Every nerve in her body burns, her magic is distant and cold. Yasha is on her instantly, hands squeezing around Calpernia’s neck.

The dagger lays on the floor, not far from them. Unable to cast spells, Calpernia reaches out in desperation. She touches the hilt with her fingertips, tears gathering in her eyes. Her hand shakes, unable to reach the one and only weapon that can save her life.

Her vision blurred, she whimpers again, desperately reaching for the hilt of the dagger. She can almost grasp it but hands squeeze her throat so tightly, a sense of dread is all she can feel. Calpernia struggles once more, the weight of her opponent pressing hard on her.

Tears fall from her eyes, her body on fire. The whole world is strangely silent, Yasha’s ragged breathing is the only sound she can hear. Overwhelmed by dread, she pleads in her thoughts as tears fall from her eyes. The girl's face twisted in rage will be the last thing Calpernia sees before she's dead. She shakes with fear, her lungs burning. There's still so much she needs to do. She’s not ready to die.

Some say when you're about to die your whole life flashes before your eyes. Calpernia can't look away from Yasha's eyes, so dark and angry it's almost unbelievable how one person can feel so much hate.

It’s the kind of hate Calpernia knows. She’s seen it so many times before that she used to think she was marked and that’s why people looked at her like she was some hideous creature that crawled from the void.

She can smell hay and horses, and she's curled into a ball trying not to cry. Sorka's stick hitting her back hurts but not as much as being rejected by every other servant because she's a freak, and her place is in the stables.

When she carries two buckets of water her arms hurt. Marius smiles, and there’s so much kindness in his eyes as his big hand reaches for her face. But then he’s gone, and Calpernia is alone again, banished from servant’s quarters because there’s something in her they despise.

Just when she finally understands every word she so carefully reads, the book in her hands bursts into flames, and she screams. She _wants_ to scream but Yasha's hands squeeze her throat, nails digging into her skin like claws.

It takes all what's left of her strength to grip the dagger in her hand. She moves her arm, blinded by fear, and feels the blade cutting through flesh. She pushes the dagger deeper, as deep as she can, then pulls it out with a silent cry. The weapon falls on the floor with a clang of metal.

Blood spills on her face and chest in a hot gush. She can barely register it all because finally the iron grip on her neck is gone, and she can breathe again. Calpernia inhales, greedily grasping for air. The world around her is spinning, the blood on her skin is warm and sticky, but nothing matters as much as the air in her lungs.

Yasha makes a sound, something like a startled cry. She presses her hands to the gaping wound on her throat, blood spilling between her fingers. Her fury disappears replaced by terror. She coughs up blood, and before she falls face down on the dirty floor, she looks at Calpernia once again.

She's never seen such pure fear in someone's eyes.

Calpernia massages her neck, taking shaky breaths. Her hands are sticky with blood. Her throat hurts though not as much as her head. She tries again to search for her magic, but all her power is gone, leaving nothing but emptiness behind. It feels like someone locked away a piece of her soul.

A mage attacks from a distance. Killing someone with a spell feels less… personal, than cutting one’s throat with a blade. She’s familiar with the smell of death (ashes and smoke, and burning flesh) yet never in her life she felt so fragile. Her eyes linger on the dead woman sprawled on the dirty floor.   _Grab the dagger and strike, that was enough._

With a groan of pain, Calpernia gets up, her legs shaking. Tears gather in her eyes, and she wills them away. Crying like a foolish child won’t help her now. Something needs to be done with the girl. _I was supposed to be the one lying dead on the floor._

Loud steps tell her there’s someone coming up the stairs, then the door opens and Ontario steps inside. He wants to say something but stops, his eyes going wide when he sees the body lying in a growing puddle of blood. The elf goes pale, tying to comprehend what just happened. Standing behind him is Samson, who peaks inside the room, confused. Something like anger flashes in his eyes as he notices the dead girl, the dagger on the floor, and all the blood on Calpernia’s clothes and skin.

“Get in, both of you, and close the door,” Calpernia instructs. She feels cold, colder than ever, with no magic to keep her warm.

“Lady Calpernia, are you hurt?” Ontario asks.

“I’m fine,” she lies, and gives the elf a weak smile.

What she's supposed to say? That she didn't want to kill her? She’s not sure, and the skull crushing pain in her head doesn’t help her think at all.

“She did something to my magic.”

“Your magic?” Samson repeats with a frown. “What do you mean?”

“I can’t feel it. Something’s blocking all my power.”

He stares at her in disbelief.

“She hit you with the Holy Smite. It's only temporary. Your magic will return to you,” Samson explains, sounding almost reassuring.

“You’re saying she was a _templar_?”

“Only templars know how to do it. If she really was a Marcher then…” he lets out a sigh. “Well, with the Order gone, the templars were set lose without anyone to tell them what to do. Someone found her and told her to do the job in exchange for coin. Or lyrium, most likely. Some templars got pretty desperate to get it…”

“We’ll talk about it later.” Calpernia takes a deep breath. She needs to be calm and do something before someone sees what happened here. She stands up, her eyes move to Ontario.

“Make sure the owner stays away from this room,” she instructs the elf. “Last thing we need right now is him seeing this mess. Tell Sorren what happened. Once people are gone, I’ll need you to get rid of the body.”

He nods, his eyes full of worry. But he won’t say a word of protest, he won’t stop and ask how she feels because he’s smart enough to know what needs to be done first.

When Ontario leaves, carefully closing the door behind him, Samson kneels on the floor by the girl once known as Yasha. He turns her on her back, and Calpernia forces herself to look. Her eyes are wide open, staring blankly at the ceiling. Blood pools all around her, dyeing her clothes and hair red. There’s no trace of anger left in her eyes; there’s no trace of anything other than fear.

“So she wasn’t some slave girl after all,” Samson muses. “Did she tell you anything? Do you have any clue who could send her? I imagine someone noticed that slavers are going missing…”

Calpernia shakes her head. He’s probably right, though it’s hard to say who exactly wants her dead, and what they know about her. She needs to get back to Tevinter, the sooner the better.

Samson searches in the girl’s pockets, throwing what he finds on the floor – five coins that Calpernia gave her the day they left Val Chevin, a handkerchief with odd blue stains. Then he finds something else, a small vial filled with blue liquid, and he hesitates, gripping it in his hand instead of throwing away.

_Lyrium_ , Calpernia narrows her eyes. _So she was a templar. Someone paid her in blue instead of gold…_

Samson takes a deep breath, staring at the thing in his hand as if hypnotised. There’s a glimmer of need in his eyes, creating a striking contrast with his usual apathy.

Calpernia is by him in an instant. Without a second of hesitation, she hits him in the hand. Startled, he drops the vial that shatters on the floor. The blue liquid mixes with blood.

“I get your point,” Samson says, his lips curling into a bitter smile. “So what do we do with her?”

Images of Lyrio, Talia’s former master, and slaver Caspar flash before Calpernia’s eyes. She summoned flames to burn them until there were nothing but piles of ashes. Her head is heavy, magic locked behind an impenetrable barrier. Panic rising in her throat, Calpernia stares at the dead girl on the floor, the gaping wound on her neck similar to a horrid maw.

“We need something to cover up the body,” Samson tells her after a beat. “And clean the floor before the blood starts dripping on someone’s head in the room below.”

They wrap her up in sheets, making her look like one of the mummified corpses Nevarrans are so famous for. It seems Samson does it all almost effortlessly, as if the girl didn’t weigh anything.

Calpernia tosses him a blanket, and he finishes the job without a word while she observes his every move, unable to say anything.

“You magic will return to you,” he says in a calm voice. “Templar powers are only temporary.”

Samson looks at her, and there’s something in his eyes she can’t quite understand but for some reason it makes her irritated.

“Yes, you told me that already,” she huffs in irritation. When he doesn’t move, she glares at him. “You may go. Get downstairs and order another fish pie.”

“You sure you’re okay staying with…” he makes a vague hand gesture, glancing at the body on the floor.

_Is that concern?_ Calpernia doesn’t want to know.

“Yes. Now leave me alone.”

Once he’s gone she scrubs the floor until there’s not a single drop of blood left and her knees and back hurt. At least when she concentrates on the pain she doesn’t have to think about this whole situation.

Once everything’s clean, she shimmies out of her dirty robe, then wipes her face and chest with a cloth. She needs to burn it all later. There’s enough water left in the small washbowl to clean the sweat and blood from her skin. Calpernia looks at her hands. After scrubbing the floor they are red, the scars on her arms more visible than ever.

_A slave’s hands._ She searches her bag for a pair of gloves and hastily puts them on.

In the middle of the night, when all guests are gone and the fat man who owns this place is asleep, Ontario and Sorren leave the tavern, carrying the body wrapped in sheets and blankets. When they return they don’t explain what they did with it, and Calpernia doesn’t want to know. She sleeps dreamlessly, her body sore.

In the early morning her magic returns with a familiar tingling in her fingertips. It takes just one simple thought to make a flame appear in her palm. Without this power, she’d still serve in a magister’s house, sleep on a pile of hay, at night sneaking into her master’s library to read about the past glory of her homeland. For a longer while she looks at the flame in her hand, its warmth calming her down

Calpernia squeezes her eyes shut, wipes away the tears, and gets up to face another day. She keeps the dagger of the dead girl by her side, a reminder that she was supposed to be the one who died in a shabby tavern in a Nevarran city, never to return home.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samson learns the truth about his 'rescue'.

By the time they make it to the city of Nevarra, summer has ended. With Florianne's help coin is hardly a problem, at least for the time being. Thus it's easy to convince a tavern's owner, an elderly woman who looks like an evil witch from a fairy tale, to rent them two rooms and let their horses rest in the stables. Hearing a Tevinter speaking in common would raise suspicion, so Calpernia lets Ontario do all the talking. No one pays attention to his Orlesian accent since Orlesians travel to Nevarra all the time.

The old crone grumbles something about 'filthy elves in her fine establishment'. She changes her mind after seeing the coin Ontario has to offer.

“After me, please,” she says with a smile that makes her look like a toad. She has an impressive ability to make the coins instantly disappear into the folds of her apron.

They follow her up the stairs that squeak under every step. She reaches into her pocket and fishes out a key to open two doors  on the left side of a narrow corridor. Two rooms on the other side are probably vacant, otherwise Calpernia can't help but pity the people who have to stay in this shabby place.

Before the old woman disappears she reminds them that she can provide meals if needed. “For extra price, of course,” she adds with a smile.

Calpernia pushes the door open. The room is a tiny thing with a rickety old bed and a small table. There's a large dark stain in the centre of the floor, and the smell of stench is heavy in the air. Calpernia rushes to open the window. _It's only for the night_ , she tells herself. At least they have a roof above their heads.

Calpernia lets out a sigh. She takes off her gloves, folds them and places on the table. Her head feels heavy, and she longs for sleep, though first she has to deal with one problem. She glances up at Samson who closes the door behind him.

“Pity you don’t have any mansions in Nevarra. But if you think this is bad you should see Darktown in Kirkwall.” He unceremoniously plops down on the bed, making a cloud of dust rise from the bedding. “So what, we’re sharing the bed tonight?”

Calpernia gives him a look of disdain. “I’m afraid not.”

“Worth a try,” he shrugs, then grabs a pillow and tosses it on the floor. “As a real gentleman that I am, I shall sleep on the floor while the lady takes the bed.”

His mock serious tone makes her roll her eyes. He lies down on the floor, appearing perfectly comfortable. _Well, at least he’s not complaining…_

She folds her cloak and puts it under her head, a makeshift pillow. Sleep doesn’t want to come, so Calpernia stares at the ceiling, listening to muffled voices coming from downstairs. Another night in some distant land. She’s getting closer with every day, yet she still hasn’t reached the Imperium yet.

Another night in some dingy place fit for thieves and scum. She hopes that the rest of her companions are sleeping in better conditions. The caravan should reach the Silent Plains before them. Lucius, Berard and Talia should be safe with the merchants.

_Should be…_ , Calpernia repeats in her thoughts. She tries not to think about the dead girl she left in Cumberland. Something twists anxiously inside her, making her ill with loneliness.

“How did you get me back on my feet?”

Samson’s voice seems so loud in the silence that Calpernia gasps, startled. She turns her head to the side to see him sit up, looking at her with anticipation.

“I was in a pretty bad shape,” he continues. “Can’t remember much after I left Skyhold, you could fill in the blanks. Tell me, I deserve to know, don’t you think?”

For a longer while she can merely look at him in silence. She’d rather expect him to ask about Kirkwall or any other topic than this. The questions is so unexpected she has to think about the answer, which isn’t easy considering the state of her mind.

Calpernia stands up and walks to the window to close it. The evening air makes her skin cold, besides this is a conversation that no one other than people involved should hear. _Yes, you deserve to know_. _But are you sure you want to?_

She turns to face him, arms crossed on her chest. “I did a ritual. It took weeks to prepare everything. _Extremis malis extrema remedia_. I believe in common you say, extreme remedies for extreme illness? So it was good that the Inquisitor decided to keep you in a dungeon for so long.”

“How did you even know that I was captured?”

“I have a... an agent among the servants working in Skyhold.”

Samson stares at her, eyes wide in shock. Then he laughs, so loudly that the old crone that owns this place surely hears him downstairs. It’s an odd sound, or maybe it just sounds odd to her.

“You have a spy right under the Inquisitor's nose! I don't know if you are bold or stupid!” He shakes his head in disbelief.

“I consider myself _resourceful_ ,” Calpernia says, in her mind cursing herself for blushing.

“You did a ritual, you said. What kind of ritual?”

“I’m afraid you won’t be happy to know it involved magic,” she replies, her voice careful. It’d be better if she could avoid explaining it in detail.

_But he deserves to know_ , she tells herself again, gathering her strength for what’s about to happen.

Samson scoffs. “I know _that_. Do you think templars know nothing about magic other than how to fight it?”

He gives her a look. Calpernia bites her lower lip, awaiting his next question.

“What _kind_ of magic? Other than leading the Venatori you’re also a healer?”

She shakes her head. “Unfortunately I’m terrible at healing magic.”

“Then what was it? Some secret Tevinter spell you’re not allowed to talk about?” He stops as a spark of realisation appears in his eyes. Calpernia observes his reaction, the way his smile disappears.

“Blood magic,” he whispers, refusing to believe.

Samson stands up, his body tense, jaw clenched. When he takes a step forward Calpernia balls her hands into fists, her skin tingling with power. Knowing how the southerners react to the smallest mention of this kind of magic, Samson’s reaction is pretty predictable. But if he thinks he can intimidate her then he’s wrong.

“Blood magic?!”

“Keep your vice down!,” she hisses. “That old hag can be listening. Do you want us all to die only because you fail to understand that – ”

“That what?!”

“That I did what was necessary! You were half dead already!”

“And you should have let me die!”

“I needed you to go to the Temple – ” His growl of anger stops her mid–sentence.

“And for what?! There was _nothing_ in that place! Corypheus didn't left any grand secrets for you or me! He used both of us, and then he died, end of story!”

Her lips twitch. It still hurts. Corypheus made her believe she was important when in reality he wanted nothing but use her for his own schemes. How stupid it was to believe he was going to save the Imperium.

But she’s not the only one who was deceived by the Elder One.

 “Yes, I know this now, but I _needed_ to check. I was a fool to hope Corypheus would keep his promise.” Magic feels warm in her fingertips, calming her down.

“Who did you sacrifice for the ritual? Killed one of your Venatori friends in exchange for my life?”

Her brows knit. “I didn't kill anyone.”

“Please, how stupid do you think I am? Blood magic always requires sacrifice.”

Calpernia scoffs. “Do not lecture me about magic, templar! The only blood I used for the ritual was my own.”

“You just sprinkled a demon with your blood and that was it? Somehow I find it hard to believe.”

“I made a deal.”

“And then?” Samson prompts, annoyance clear in his voice.

“I killed it. There's no deal when the demon's dead.”

 “You _killed_ it?!”

She presses her lips into a thin line. It’s all basic knowledge, but of course why would an ignorant templar know about it.

“Historical records provide numerous instances when a mage – ”

“What if it wouldn't work?” Samson barks, too impatient and angry to let her explain. “What if the demon possessed _you_ , what would happen then? Ever thought about that?”

“I made sure that no demon could possess me.”

“You are so full of yourself it’s unbelievable!” He shakes his head. “You _used_ me in some blighted ritual, a ritual involving _blood magic_ , only because you thought Corypheus left me some secret knowledge in that damn temple!”

His voice gets louder with every sentence, yet anger isn’t the only emotion she sees in his eyes. It’s the templar in him who’s angry, while the rest of him looks hurt, betrayed. 

She should have known that honesty isn’t the answer here. Southerners have a twisted perception of magic, especially blood magic. Of course a former templar won’t understand. For some reason she just hoped that Samson knew better.

Calpernia holds her hand up, sparks of fire dancing on her fingers. If he wants this conversation to be about mages and templars, then she intends to show him that a mage like her won’t be intimidated by his childish yelling.

“I won’t ask you again to keep your voice down,” Calpernia whispers.

“Are you mad?” He stares at her hand in shock.

Suddenly he grabs her wrist. She lets out a startled gasp, but then her surprise changes to anger.

“Do _not_ touch me!”

Her hand slaps his face hard, fury disappearing from his eyes in an instant replaced by surprise. Calpernia blinks, feeling hot blush pricking her skin. The sparks of fire in her hand are gone, and she opens her lips to say something, cursing her own impulsiveness in her thoughts.

Unable to find the right words, she keeps silent. For one moment her eyes focus on the metal bird hanging from a chain on Samson’s neck. It feels like they had this conversation before, like they can’t talk normally because sooner or later one of them snaps.

Seconds later the door opens and Ontario steps inside with a knife in his hand.

“I heard... noises,” he says, hesitant, watching them warily. His messy hair and groggy eyes are enough to tell them he was already asleep until their little conversation woke him up.

Calpernia clears her throat.

“It was just a… difference of opinions, nothing more.” She puts a strand of hair behind her ear, hoping the elf doesn’t ask about the furious blush on her face. “Thank you, Ontario, for your concern. I apologise for trouble. You may go now, get some rest. We _all_ should get some rest.”

“I, uh… I see,” the elf puts the knife in a sheath on his belt. He observes Samson for a moment, then his eyes return to Calpernia. “I apologise for trouble. Have a good night, then.”

When the door closes behind him, Calpernia lets out a sigh. Without a word, avoiding looking at the former templar, she goes back to bed. Hopefully it’s over, and they both agree to never touch the subject again. Unless Samson decides to change his mind and understand that not all blood magic is evil. It seems highly unlikely, besides Calpernia can feel a headache approaching, so she decides it’s best to pretend nothing happened.

The floor squeaks as Samson moves, sitting down by the window.

“What…” he takes a deep breath. “What did it do exactly? That ritual.”

His voice is calm and quiet, a stark contrast to his previous voice full of spite. Calpernia stares at the dark ceiling above her head. _You don’t want to know the details._

“It cleansed your body, unfortunately not completely. There are still traces of red lyrium left in you but as long you don't start taking it again you’ll be fine.”

He’s silent for a longer while, making her wonder if this was enough for him to finally drop the subject. But just when Calpernia closes her eyes, Samson speaks again.

“I’ve seen what blood magic can do to people. Why would you…”

“In the wrong hands all magic is evil,” Calpernia interrupts him before the templar in him gets angry again. “There are magisters living in my country who keep slaves only so they can use their blood for spells. There’s no need to remind me what bad things magic can do.”  

“Then why do I have to take that damn potion every day?” Samson’s voice is similar to a whisper.

Calpernia takes a breath, glancing up at the cracks on the ceiling. She should tell him about the day when she first saw him – when she saw what was left of him, tell him about every word he said when he was delirious, crying and begging for the red, always the red in everything he said.

“To ease the pain.”

And only then Samson is finally silent. Calpernia is glad she can close her eyes and pretend the odd ache somewhere deep in her mind doesn’t exist.

 

* * *

 

Calpernia wakes up with a start, her body beaded with sweat. She feels so exhausted as if she was running all night instead of sleeping. For one moment she considers making a sleeping potion, but that wouldn’t solve the problem. The nightmares would still be there, deep in her mind, waiting for the right moment to come back and torment her.

At times she’s sure that there’s something _stalking_ her in the Fade, something calling out to her. Or maybe she’s getting paranoid. The image of a dead girl sprawled on the floor doesn’t want to go away, and when Calpernia touches her neck she may almost feel a knife slicking through her flesh.

Maybe once she’s finally in Tevinter she’ll be at peace, and the nightmares will disappear. She can hope.

Judging by the darkness around her it’s still before the sunrise. In the darkness of the night the room appears even more gloomy, everything in shades of brown and grey. The place is unnaturally silent, and when the bed creaks as Calpernia sits up, the sound is unpleasantly loud.

Samson is sitting by the open window, perhaps admiring the view (though it’s doubtful if he finds something admirable looking at the poor part of the grand city of Nevarra). He turns his head to glance at her, not surprised at all to see her awake so early.

“Bad dream?”

He seems tired, but then again he always does. He looks like someone who wants to sleep but can’t, making Calpernia wonder if their recent conversation is the reason he chose to stay awake.

She nods, too tired to lie.

“You can still see the stars. Didn’t you Vints build some fancy devices to look at the constellations? There’s one near Kirkwall but it’s broken.”

“You mean astrariums?” Calpernia asks, eyebrows raised. She read a book about the subject back when she served Erasthenes. “There’s still a lot of them left in the Imperium.”

She gets up and walks to the window. She may as well look at the stars; whatever works to make her forget about the nightmares.

“See that constellation that looks like a bear?” he points up at the night sky. “What’s it called?”

She narrows her eyes at the stars, confused. “Where do you see a… That’s _not_ a bear,” she frowns. “That's the White Wolf. Fenrir, to be more specific. How can you say it's a _bear_?”

When she looks at Samson a small smile appears on his lips. “Amaze me with your extensive knowledge of astrology, then.”

Calpernia scoffs. “There’s a tale of a wolf escaping hunters by fleeing into the sky. Certain scholars claim the constellation was named after the elven trickster god, Fen'Harel. Sufficient to say it’s a _wolf_ , not a bear.”

“You’re an expert, not me.”

She glares at him, though her irritation only seems to amuse him. They observe the sky in silence until the sunrise makes the stars disappear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I rewrote this chapter three times, and every time the events played out differently. The final result is kind of *meh* but I guess the plot moves forward at least. Bear with me, one day they will get to Tevinter…  
> @the ritual: I assume Tevinter mages are way more knowledgeable about blood magic, and have their ways of doing stuff like that… Because if Bioware can do whatever they want with their canon & change it every now and then, there’s no use wondering what magic *can* do in the DA universe.  
> Also, I’m not sure if I have enough time to write the next chapter and post it next week. I’ve been struggling to find some free time since I got a new job, and on top of that from now on I’ll be busy with uni stuff. But I’ll try to do my best to continue to update regularly.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Servis reunites with Calpernia.

Looking at the letter in his hand, for a moment Servis considers tearing it into pieces and ignoring the message completely. That, however, would mean he could never go back to Tevinter. Not to mention that it would be simply stupid. Yet there’s a part of him that is _afraid_ ; he’s seen what the Archon does to people who oppose him. The Venatori don’t exist anymore because Radonis doesn’t tolerate opposition, thus it’s easy to imagine what he’ll do if he finds out about Calpernia.

_At least I don’t have to go back to the Western Approach_. Servis lets out a sigh. At this point he’s fairly certain that _anything_ is better than the Western Approach.

Being a double agent was all fun and games until Servis was left alone, ordered to observe the Inquisition, while Lady Calpernia and her companions set out for the Temple of Dumat. He was more than happy to help a fellow Tevinter, but after a while he started having _doubts_ , because if there is something Servis specialises in, other than the ancient history of Thedas, it’s overthinking.

He’s still technically the Inquisitor’s agent – not that Lavellan considers him useful. After Calpernia sailed to Val Royeaux, he stayed in Lydes for a while, then travelled north as well, hoping that he won’t be stopped by the Inquisition. As it turned out, the Inquisition kind of forgot about him, or so it seemed.

They didn’t even bother sending him a note saying they don’t need his services anymore. He met with Nightingale’s agents once to tell them where they can find some old Tevinter temple in which they could supposedly get some old maps or whatever they were looking for, and that was it. That made him rather disappointed. Quite understandably because he’s the best expert on Tevinter history the Inquisition ever captured, and they just let him go. That is beyond stupid, not that he’s the one to complain.

Officially he still works for the Inquisitor but if they don’t want him anymore then _fine_. While Lavellan is busy with her expedition to the Deep Roads, he can finally sneak back to Tevinter. Or so he hopes, because Lady Calpernia may have different plans for him.

Servis lets out a long sigh and opens the letter, curious if finally there is something he can do for the last remaining leader of the Venatori. It’s been a while since he last heard from her, and truth to be told, he was getting worried.

Even though there’s no signature this time, he can recognise Calpernia’s handwriting, every letter written so carefully as if it was the Archon’s official decree.  He spends a while on deciphering the code, since he never paid much attention to the way the Venatori write their secret messages.

Once again Lady Calpernia manages to surprise him. Servis expects a command to return south, maybe even go to Skyhold so he can be closer to the Inquisitor and inform Calpernia about everything (after all, is he not the best _double agent_ the Venatori have in their ranks?). But it’s not the case, she doesn’t want him in the south. Lady Calpernia asks him to travel to Silent Plains and meet her there, so close to _home_ Servis nearly bursts into tears.

He’ll finally do something _important_ for her. Why else would she need to meet him again, and so close to the Imperium? They’re going to make history, and Servis will be there to see it. Perhaps one day scholars will write books about them, and artists will paint his portraits. Servis can only hope that they will get his nose right because so far he looks terrible on every painting his family ordered.

After reading the letter enough times to memorise every word, he burns it with a simple spell in case someone wanted to discover his secret correspondence. He needs to be careful though it’s a bit sad that being a double agent  isn’t as exciting as everyone thinks. If no one bothers to send Antivan assassins after him, because the Inquisition doesn’t consider him interesting enough, then what’s the point, really…

 

* * *

 

It takes Servis a week to get to the Silent Plains, and with every passing day he regrets leaving his homeland even more. He has to spend a lot of gold on a horse, a stubborn creature that makes him a little bit afraid and doesn’t want to listen to him _at all_. He rides north via the Imperial Highway, feeling dreadfully alone. He considers joining a caravan of merchants, but the more he asks the more suspicious people become as if being Tevinter made him a public enemy in Nevarra. There are rumours of bandits hunting for travellers, and every night he goes to sleep fearing he may wake up with a knife on his throat. Thinking that his journeys were supposed to bring him fame and gold leaves Servis with a sour look on his face.

He misses the familiar weight of his staff in his hands (the staff the Inquisition confiscated was his father’s gift to him after he finished his education in the Minrathous Circle of Magi; now it’s most likely rotting somewhere in Lavellan’s dungeon, as she’s pretty sure she wouldn’t use it herself). Getting a new staff is one of the things on his “to do” list once he’s back home. So close to Tevinter, Servis can’t help but dream of the day he’s finally able to return to Vyrantium.

He writes a letter home; although he can’t say much about his plans, he can at least suggest that perhaps he’ll come back sooner than later. Back in Tevinter, he could use one of the communication crystals that every civilized country has. In Nevarra, however, he has to pay a small fortune to send a letter and make sure it will actually reach Vyrantium. _The south is still in the Ancient Age_ , Servis thinks with disdain.

 

* * *

 

To say that Servis is relieved to see Calpernia again would be an understatement. There’s something in this woman he can’t quite understand, but if anyone ever asks him who looks like a person ready to lead a revolution, he’ll point at her.

Lady Calpernia is accompanied by more people than Servis expected to see by her side. Two elves he doesn’t know, but he remembers the two Venatori men. They’re both Tevinter though one of them has an Ander accent. He wonders if he should get to know them better, considering they’re all united in the same cause. Then he remembers that look people usually give him when he starts talking, and decides it’s better if he doesn’t ask about anything, just this once.

Then there’s the red haired girl with a scar on her face. He’s not sure about her name, though he distinctly remembers the determination and anger shining in her eyes when she explained to him what happened to her master. If looks could kill Servis would be dead that day when she met her back in Lydes.

Samson looks a lot better than the last time Servis saw him. Well, at least the scowl is gone, and he seems less grumpy. The fact that there are no red crystals growing on his body is definitely a big plus…

No one seems particularly happy to see him, not that he expects a warm welcome (though acknowledging his presence would be nice). Servis walks straight to Calpernia, gives her a nod, and when he speaks his voice is calm and clear just like he was taught back in his Circle days.

“Lady Calpernia,” he begins with a bright smile, “you cannot believe how happy I am to – ”

“Are you sure you’re not being followed?” Calpernia’s icy stare sends a shiver down his spine. “The Inquisition’s troops stationed near the border not so long ago. Perhaps not everyone left.”

His smile momentarily weakens. “I’m sure! The Inquisitor ordered every single one of her soldiers to return to Skyhold. I heard rumour about some expedition to the Deep Roads,” Servis adds, hoping to amaze Lady Calpernia with his knowledge about The Enemy.

Much to his distress, she doesn’t seem surprised by this information.

“Yes, I heard Lavellan wants to go to the Deep Roads. What business does she have there?”

“I’m afraid I can’t say. Everyone knows where Lavellan’s going, but the reason why she wants to go there is kept secret, it seems.”

He tries not to sound disappointed that Calpernia doesn’t seem at least a little bit happy to see him. Is he not one of the last remaining Venatori? Not only that but he’s also a cunning _double agent_ , blatantly lying to the Inquisition so that his Tevinter ally can be one step ahead of them. It would be nice if she showed some appreciation.

“How was your, ah, visit to the Temple of Dumat, Lady Calpernia?” Servis asks, still awaiting gratitude. After all he was the one who helped her get there.

“Interesting.”

It seems she’s not in the mood to talk. Servis clears his throat, the situation making him uneasy. He glances around but the rest of her group is far from looking supportive. They don’t even seem to care, much to Servis’ disappointment.

“I’m glad to see you in good health, Lady Calpernia. One could say you look radiant, and – ”

Calpernia’s raised hand is enough to make him stop talking.

“I know you like to talk, Servis, but first listen what I have to say, please. I’ll make this quick. I’m going to Vyrantium, and you’re going with me.”

He stares at her in confusion. This sounds too good to be true. But if it truly is true, then…

Servis takes a deep breath. _My prayers have been answered._

Forget the Chantry, once he is back in Vyrantium he’s going to leave offerings in every temple of the Old Gods that still stands in the city. The Maker clearly didn’t want him to return to the Imperium, completely ignoring his prayers. Just the other day, while travelling through the Imperial Highway, Servis noticed a small statue of a dragon wrapped around a pole placed near the road. Its wings were similar to flames, the statue was old, damaged in places, but the runes carved on the dragon’s scales were still readable. It was the figure of Toth, one of the Old Gods, put in this place ages ago to aid Tevinter travellers in need. Of course in this day and age nobody cares about it anymore, yet Servis decided to stop, kneel in front of it and say a simple prayer for his safe return home. He moved on, forgetting about it by the end of the day.

Who knew the Old God would actually answer him. Not that Servis considers himself religious… But it _worked_ , and it’s clear as a day that the Dragon Gods still love their loyal Tevinter subjects, such as Crassius Servis.

“Obviously, _if_ you want to join me,” Calpernia continues, oblivious to the state of Servis’ mind. “If not, I’ll pay you for your trouble and we’ll most likely never see each other again. But I could use your help, especially now, considering my contacts in Tevinter are very limited.”

“Yes, of course!” he says. He sounds _too_ eager, yet at this point he doesn’t care that much. The very prospect of finally going back home instantly makes him forget how underappreciated he felt just moments ago. “I’ll gladly help you, Lady Calpernia. And if we’re going to Vyrantium, then consider my home your own.”

Calpernia gives him a smile. “I’m glad I have you by my side, Servis.”

He nearly bursts into tears. Finally, some _appreciation_.

“Once we’re back in the Imperium, I’d like to stay in Vyrantium for a while,” she adds. “Returning to Tevinter is one thing, but there’s still so much to be done so we can even have a chance to do what’s needed.”

Servis fakes a smile. Of course they’ll need allies, the more powerful the better. Calpernia can’t storm Minrathous with five people; if Radonis learns about her plans they’ll be obliterated. She may stay in his house as long as she needs – though the problem is that Servis isn’t sure who can help them in this situation. It won’t be easy to find someone who will support them.

Then he remembers that there’s one more ex–Venatori left in Tevinter. It’s not exactly the best choice for an ally, but he may at least ask Calpernia if she wants to contact _that person_.

“Magister Erimond returned to Vyrantium recently. But I believe you already heard about it…”

She nods. “As a matter of fact, I did. Tell me, do you know him well?”

“Not really. Do you intend to contact him, Lady Calpernia?”

“With your help, yes.”

He presses his lips into a thin line, trying not to think how awful was his last meeting with Livius Erimond. The man was clearly obsessed with the Elder One to the point that one could think he was in fact in love with the ancient darkspawn magister. Erimond was so sure that his task with the Grey Wardens was of the utmost importance, he didn’t even want to listen to Servis who complained about terrible working conditions (darkspawn appearing from nowhere, a dragon hunting Venatori, sand getting _everywhere_ ). And when Servis politely suggested that a small group of Wardens could join him for a while, and make his life considerably easier while he searched the Western Approach for old Tevinter ruins, Erimond got so offended he refused to speak to Servis again.

Then the Inquisitor arrived, Erimond got his ass handed to him, while Servis was captured and thrown into a dungeon in Skyhold. Well, at least they can talk how much they hate the Inquisition when they meet again.

“If I may ask… Lady Calpernia, what makes you think magister Erimond would be interested in your plans?”

When she glances at him, she has this look on her face again that makes Servis wonder how this skinny girl can seem so threatening. When he sees her like this, he thinks about burning flames.

“I can be rather convincing if I need to,” Calpernia says with a smile.

Oh, there’s no doubting that.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Upon reaching Vyrantium, Calpernia discovers that things aren’t as black and white as she imagined.

If Calpernia thought that Servis likes to talk, then it was nothing compared to how talkative he gets once they reach Vyrantium.

“See that building on the right? It’s one of the Archon’s libraries he founded in the city. He likes to pretend Vyrantium is his, as if Minrathous wasn’t enough for him! But don’t say that out loud, Radonis has spies everywhere... That place next to the library serves the best wine in all Vyrantium. Certainly better than whatever those barbarians in the south drink. Have I mentioned that I was severely disappointed by the quality of food in Orlais?”

Calpernia lets out a sigh. Fortunately Servis doesn’t mind she’s not exactly listening to his excited blabbing. Truth to be told, all what she knows about this city comes from old books she read long time ago. Now she feels slightly overwhelmed by the richness all around her. Calpernia tries to look at everything, comparing her knowledge from the old tomes to what her eyes see, while the smuggler’s voice provides some kind of background noise.

She and Servis travel to the part of the city where his estate is located, while the rest of her companions stay in a tavern. _Just in case_ , she thinks, walking the streets of Vyrantium. She wants to trust Servis, yet the feeling of dread doesn’t want to go away, fuelled by nightmares that haunt her.

“That place serves the best food in Vyrantium,” Servis says, pointing at a restaurant on the other side of the street. As they navigate through the morning crowd, he talks and talks, and talks, excitement clear in his voice.

What Calpernia already knew about Vyrantium is nothing compared to actually being here. It’s the second biggest city in the Imperium, yet so different than Minrathous.

Despite the early hour, the streets are already busy with people. Nobles in palanquins carried by muscular slaves, merchants offering all sorts of goods, people rushing to work, most of them going to the marketplace near the docks. Seeing signs written in Tevene and hearing the language all around them brings her some odd sort of comfort. And the feeling of magic in the air brings a smile on her face.

_Home? Not yet, but soon, if gods are good_. Calpernia looks around with hope.

“Did you contact anyone to tell them you’re coming back?” she asks Servis once he stops blabbing about the wonders of his city to catch a breath.

He nods. “I sent a message to Posca. He can be trusted.”

“Is he your brother?” Calpernia asks, realising she doesn’t know much about him other than what her agents told her.

“No, no, he’s my family’s – ” He stops, then clears his throat. “Well, you could say he’s my family’s most loyal servant.”

“You keep _slaves_ in your house?” She narrows her eyes at him. Somehow they never talked about this issue. It’s easy to forget Crassius Servis is a magister’s son, though very different from those spoiled brats that joined the ranks of the Venatori.

“But... everyone in Tevinter has slaves! And my family's always been good to them! We don't keep that many, only five to take care of the house!”

Calpernia scoffs. _Only five, he says._

“You’re talking about slaves. Do they get coin for their hard work? Have you ever paid any attention to them?”

Servis blushes furiously. “They never complained…”

“Because they have no right to complain!” She shakes her head in disbelief. “We will talk about it later.”  

His estate is quite big, surrounded by a well–maintained garden. Just when Servis raises his hand to knock, since there’s no handle on this side, the front door opens. A man looks at them, and from the expression on his face it seems he finds it hard to believe in what he sees.

He looks about forty, has grey receding hair. He wears a clean white tunic and brown sandals. There’s a leather belt with a pouch on his waist. A rectangular plate on a thin silver chain is hanging from his neck, and Calpernia recognises it instantly.

Every modern Tevinter household decorates their important slaves with plates like this one. It's a certificate of sorts, with the slave's name and the name of the family he belongs to written in elegant letters so everyone knows whom he represents. Some owners tattoo or brand their slaves, though the practice is rather frowned upon and considered barbaric by today's standards.

Before her magic awakened Calpernia was but a lowly slave whose job was to stay invisible so she never got one. However, slaves like Sorka, a dwarven steward who was in charge of every slave in Erasthenes' mansion, deserved to wear their owner's name like a shield. This man represents Servis just like Sorka represented Erasthenes.

The slave’s dark eyes open wide when he sees Servis. He looks like he’s about to fall on his knees. Much to everyone’s surprise it’s Servis who kneels down, gripping the hem of the man’s tunic in his hands.

“I’m home! Posca, I haven’t seen you in _ages_!”

Calpernia observes this display in silence. Who knew Servis likes being so melodramatic…

“I’m never going back to Orlais! And don’t even ask me about the Western Approach! The south is full of barbarians!”

Posca pulls him up, horrified, mumbling something about dignity. “Young master, _please_ …”

His eyes find Calpernia, and he gives her a nod. “Please forgive my manners, I should welcome you properly – ”

“Don’t worry about it,” she says with a weak smile. She glances at Servis who looks like he’s about to cry.

“Young master, please,” Posca hisses again, pulling Servis up on his feet. “Let’s get inside before the neighbours see this foolishness.”

“This is Lady Calpernia,” Servis says once they’re behind closed doors.. “We should probably think of an alias… If anyone asks, think of some story, Posca. You’ve always been good at telling stories.”

“What you want to say, young master, is that I’m good at lying. Especially to your lord father when you beg me not to tell him about your escapades,” the servant says, giving Servis a significant look. It’s almost unbelievable, this familiarity between these two.

Everyone always says so much about the magisters and their cruelty. Calpernia saw it with her own eyes; beatings for the smallest mistake, wealthy mages buying dozens of slaves to use their blood in rituals. Calpernia was somewhere in the middle of all this. Her life in Erasthenes’ house wasn’t that bad, but she was a slave nonetheless. And there was nothing she wanted more than freedom.

This, however, is something completely different. Posca wears his master’s name on a plate, he’s dressed like every other slave, and he certainly has no rights. Yet it seems like he’s part of the family.

“If there are to be any introductions,” the slave continues, “my name is Posca. It’s a great pleasure to meet you, Lady Calpernia. Please, let’s not stand in the hallway. I don’t want you to think that this family doesn’t treat their guests right.”

“You had to be so bored when I was away,” Servis laughs as they walk into the main room.

“I got used to you not being at home, young master,” Posca lets out a sigh.

He gestures at Calpernia to sit on one of the ottomans in the dining area of the room. There’s already a bottle of wine and cups ready on the table nearby. The walls are decorated with paintings of the members of the family. Calpernia spots Servis on one of them, though the portrait shows him considerably younger.

In the centre of the room there’s a small fountain with a statue of a woman with a dragon at her feet. The windows are decorated with heavy curtains, now pushed to the sides to let a warm breeze inside.

“Posca's been with my family since I remember,” Servis says, pouring wine into Calpernia’s wine.

She looks at the plate hanging on the man’s neck, and narrows her eyes. Maybe Servis can’t see what’s the problem here; maybe he _doesn’t want_ to see it. Nevertheless, she _should_ say something even though she’s merely a guest here.

“Then it's time you grant him his freedom.”

“My freedowm?” Posca repeats, surprised. He gives Servis a worried look.

“Don't you wish to be free?” Calpernia prompts. “I know it’s difficult to imagine, but you deserve to live your own life.”

The man stares at her in disbelief as if she asked him if he wants to live on the moon. “Excuse my impertinence, my lady, but where would I go? What would I do?”

“You'd be _free_.”

“I'd end up begging on the streets!” His eyes go wide. “Freedom won't buy me food and shelter. Serving this family is all I know. This is my life, my lady, I want nothing else.”

“But – ” she begins but stops, shocked by the honesty in his voice. Perhaps it’s not the right time to talk about it. Maybe things in Tevinter are more complicated that she believes.

Calpernia clears her throat. “If that is what you desire, then who am I to tell you what you should do with your life.”

It seems impossible to her that a slave would want to live freely. Back in the day, she wished she was free. If she told Posca about her plan, that she want to abolish slavery in the Imperium, how would he react? He would be against it, most likely, considering he leads a rather comfortable life.

How many loyal slaves are there who would willingly give up their lives for their masters? How they are going to react once they hear about her plan?

Calpernia absentmindedly touches the scars on her hands. _Tomorrow. I’ll think about it tomorrow_ , she promises herself. She takes a sip of wine. It’s stronger than anything else she ever had, but it’s not the only reason she feels a bitter aftertaste in her mouth.

A woman in a simple brown tunic brings them food and another bottle wine. There’s no collar on her neck, though she doesn’t dare to lift her eyes, obediently staring at the floor. There are no marks on her skin, and she appears to be in good health, yet Calpernia stirs, uncomfortable. Servis and Posca pay no attention to her, as if the food and wine just magically appeared on the table, and the slave was invisible.

“Will your father join us for dinner?” Calpernia asks, again feeling slightly ashamed that she doesn’t know much about him.

Servis shakes his head. “My father's not in Vyrantium. He was sent on a diplomatic mission to Quarinus to, ah, monitor the Qunari situation.”

“Diplomatic mission?” She frowns. _As if we could reason with the Qunari!_

“Naturally it's all a farce,” Posca says with a well–knowing smile. “But you can't refuse the Archon's offer. Lately Radonis likes to remind everyone that after so many years we’re still at war.”

“This is how my father pays for his son's mistakes,” Servis lets out a heavy sigh. “He got the position after the Archon found out about my involvement with the Venatori. While he fights the Qunari his seat in the Magisterium is empty.”

“And there's no opposition.” Calpernia nods. Radonis has been ruling the Imperium for years. He obviously knows what to do to ensure his position.

She reaches for a piece of peach from a tray of food the servant girl brought them. The fruit is sweet enough to make her forget about her own bitterness.

“Same happened with magister Erimond's parents” Posca points out. “Both highly qualified mages, both sent to some place north of Minrathous. Rumour has it there’s a regular war going on there. Maker knows if they’re alive as we speak.”

“If someone gets killed then, well, some ox will be to blame not the Archon,” Servis says as he refills his cup with more wine. “He's just trying to protect his country from savage beasts.”

“And people love him for that,” Calpernia scoffs.

As long as the nation is united against the common enemy, Radonis has someone to blame if needed. And whatever happens in the south doesn’t matter as much as stopping the Qunari from invading Tevinter.

“Livius Erimond is in Vyrantium, is he not?” she asks Posca.

“Came back a month ago. He disappeared from the public life and spends his days at home. If I may say, it’s not a surprising turn of events considering he was so open about his support of that Elder One.”

“Tevinter people never forget,” Calpernia adds. Even though there’s no Orlesian Game in the Imperium, Tevinters are particularly fond of learning every detail of other people’s lives. Noble families play their own game of digging up dirt on their enemies.

“Speaking of _people_ ,” Posca glances at Servis, his tone very similar to a parent’s voice who is about to scold their child. “I’ll notify your father about your return, young master.”

Servis lets out a groan. “Can you at least wait a few days? It’s not like he cares that much anyway.”

“If you insist. And what about Tristan? I hope that you’re going to speak to him. Or write him a letter at least?”

A faint blush colours Servis’ face. “Tristan, yes… Well, I was planning to write him a message…”

“You were planning to,” Posca repeats with a frown. “I see. Let me just say, young master, don’t run to me crying when master Tristan finds out you’re in Vyrantium.”

“Why do we have to talk about Tristan now…” Servis complains with a pout that makes him look like a sad little puppy.

Calpernia reaches for another piece of peach. She can barely register how sweet it is, since the conversation she’s observing is far more interesting than everything else. She has no idea what’s going on, but she listens to every word anyway, no matter how silly she feels.

“Because sooner or later Tristan will find out you’re back, no matter how well you try to hide from him. Which, if I may add, is incredibly stupid. With all due respect, young master.”

Servis groans again. Posca shakes his head and lets out a sigh. Calpernia reaches for another peach; it’s like one of the novels she once bought. The plot was ridiculous, characters did impossibly stupid things, and yet for some reason she couldn’t put it down.

“Lady Calpernia, do you wish to meet magister Erimond?” Posca asks her, swiftly changing the topic.

She swallows the piece of fruit and nods. “Soon, if possible.”

“Forgive me for saying this, my lady, but I’m afraid we need to work on your, ah, appearance before you speak to magister Erimond.”

Calpernia glances at the man, confused. Servis nods vigorously.

“I’ll contact Lady Livia. She’s the best seamstress in Vyrantium,” the smuggler explains. “We’ll see if she can come tomorrow and make something nice for you, Lady Calpernia.”

“It would be better if we didn’t involve another person in this,” Calpernia says.

She bites her lower lip, embarrassment colouring her face red. Until now she didn’t think about it but the men are surely right – she can’t do much looking like this. She’s not wearing rags, but in a place where appearance matters so much, people won’t take her seriously until she looks like a respectable Tevinter citizen.

She clearly remembers the day when she got rid of her slave outfit, got a bag of coins and could go out to see Minrathous from a completely different perspective. People noticed her, not because she was someone’s possession. She was one of them, the outfit she was wearing was a clear indication of her freedom. Erasthenes wasn’t kind to her, he was simply reasonable. After all he wouldn’t let his own apprentice wear dirty clothes and look like a slave she used to be.

All this time Calpernia has been so focused on planning what to do she forgot about one of the simples rules Tevinters liked so much. Appearance is everything.

Calpernia asks Servis to send someone to get the rest of her companions here. She’s still not quite sure if it’s the best solution, to have them all under one roof, but the threat of danger doesn’t seem so imminent anymore.

The mansion is huge, Calpernia can see its size with her own eyes as Servis shows her the rest of the house. He explains, with a hint of regret in his voice, that nowadays mainly servants live here.

“My mother died when I was a child,” he says as they stop in front of one of many paintings decorating the walls of a long hallway. This one shows a woman in a splendid dress, wearing strings of pearls on her neck. She has dark hair cascading down her shoulders, and there’s something familiar in the way she looks. “She wanted to have more children, at least that’s what everyone always claims. Too bad I don’t remember her that much, because I’m almost certain the paintings lie. I mean, you’ve seen the one that hangs by the fireplace, right? I look _terrible_. I don’t know, maybe painters have a different way of looking at people.”

He shrugs. When he glances at Calpernia, she realises what was so familiar in the woman on the painting. Servis has his mother’s eyes.

“My father never married again,” he continues as they walk. “He doesn’t even live here anymore, not after the Archon sent him to Quarinus. Can’t say I’m a domestic type myself, so the house usually stands empty.”

Rest of Calpernia’s companions arrive soon after, and Posca promptly guides them upstairs to the guestrooms.

“Finally something is happening in this house,” he says, opening another door to let Lucius and Berard inside.

“Should we even be here, my lord?” Lucius asks, hesitant. The way he speaks and looks at Servis reminds Calpernia of the man he used to be, a well–trained slave. When in doubt, he reverts to his former self, to what he knows, to what he was taught by his master, magister Anodatus. No wonder that a former slave feels uncomfortable in a magister’s home.

_There are things that can’t be forgotten_ , she muses with a pang of worry.

“Why not?” Servis replies. “You are my guests, and let me tell you, there’s enough space in this house for everyone. With father gone, the place is empty anyway.”

Lucius just nods. Calpernia regards Servis for a longer moment; at times it’s hard to believe it but it looks like he truly doesn’t mind sharing his home with a bunch of outcasts.

Samson, on the other hand, appears to be almost too comfortable. The first thing he does is ask for something to eat.

“And wine,” he adds with the kind of smile Calpernia finds unbearably annoying. “Tevinter wine is excellent, I was told once.”

Calpernia purses her lips, resisting the urge to scold him for his impertinence. Later she should also talk with Samson, before he manages to embarrass them all.

Servis then leaves them, mentioning something about feeling like he could sleep for the next ten years, making Calpernia believe he’s going to ignore everything else (including informing his own father that he has finally returned home) so that he can rest. It’s just the way he is; she hopes Servis’ _casual_ way of living won’t be a problem in the future.

Calpernia goes to another guest room to check on Talia.

“People here are most kind,” the girl explains with a smile on her face. After crossing the border to Tevinter. Calpernia got her a new set of clothes so she could blend in. She’s wearing a pale blue gown with a wide belt, and a pair of sandals. “I should thank Servis for letting us stay here. Though every time he sees me, he looks rather afraid for some reason.”

She doesn’t seem so tense anymore, and it’s refreshing to see her…. Maybe not happy, but _relaxed_. Looking at her, Calpernia can’t help but smile herself.

“I’ll give him your thanks, don’t worry.”

“Are we going to stay here for long, Lady Calpernia?”

There’s something like a hint of worry in Talia’s voice. She understands well enough that their journey isn’t over yet. It would be wonderful, to stay here and live in Vyrantium as long as Servis lets them (and Calpernia is damn sure it wouldn’t be difficult to convince him to let them stay here forever). But that would be too easy, and easy solutions are not what Calpernia truly wants.

“We shall see,” she says, not sure herself how long it will take to arrange everything.

She leaves the girl and lets a servant guide her to a spacious washroom. There’s a tub, a pile of folded towels on a bench, and a white linen robe hanging by the door.

Calpernia lowers herself into hot water. Ashamed that she can’t recall the last time she had a proper bath, she takes her time scrubbing her skin. She gets out only after the water is cold, then dresses in a white robe that smells vaguely of flowers. The fabric is soft on her skin; so soft, in fact, that it feels almost unnatural after wearing simple travelling clothes for so long.

When Calpernia asks the servant girl where she can find cleaning supplies to wash the tub after she used it, the poor girl looks like she’s about to have a heart attack. The servant insists, then nearly begs her to leave it as it is, so Calpernia leaves before she can make the girl even more distraught.

She makes a mental note to herself to once again talk to Servis about keeping slaves. Even if they lead lives that seem comfortable to them, they should have the option, at least.

_Everyone in Tevinter has slaves – what kind of excuse is that?_ Calpernia huffs in annoyance.

She gets inside her room and looks around curiously. There’s a carpet in the centre of the floor, a mahogany desk by the open window, and a bookshelf in the corner. Someone, most likely Servis’ most trusted servant, Posca, left  three robes for Calpernia, so she can have a change of clothes if needed. The first one is purple with tiny silver flowers embroidered on the long sleeves. The second one is azure blue and simple, but from the looks of it, it would look better on someone with more, well, ample bosom. The last one Calpernia deems the best. It’s white, not the best colour, but looks comfortable, and the fabric is soft under her fingers. This robe reminds her of the one she wore when she went out to the streets of Minrathous as a free woman for the first time in her life. Maybe she’s getting sentimental.

There’s also a bed. It’s huge, fit for a pair of fat highborn nobles not one skinny girl. For a second Calpernia considers rolling on the bed from one side to another just to check how big it is.

She shakes her head at this nonsensical thought. She walks up to the most interesting thing in the room, the bookshelf. Perhaps it’s a coincidence that of all possible options Servis chose this particular room for her. Or maybe he knows more about her that she thinks he does. Unable to resist, she reaches out to touch the tomes on the shelves, eyes scanning the titles written on the leather covers. Geography, history and religion, mostly. Calpernia’s lips curl up into a smile.

For the first time in what feels like forever, she feels joy blooming in her chest.

 

* * *

 

The next morning Calpernia isn’t sure if she should wait or not till someone comes for her. It feels like she overslept, so she hastily dresses herself in the new robe she was given, braids her hair and gets downstairs.

There’s no sight of anyone other than Posca who sits by the table in the main room. There’s a tray of food right next to him, though he doesn’t seem particularly interested in eating. He holds a quill in his left hand, his eyes busy studying some papers. Hearing footsteps, he looks up and his face lights up with a kind smile.

“Lady Calpernia, I hope you’re well–rested. There’s food left if you wish to have late breakfast.”

“What time is it?” she asks, sitting down on the other side of the table. Posca puts down the quill, and grasps a plate and a cup for her.

“It’s almost noon,” he replies.

Calpernia blinks in confusion. How she could waste so much time on _sleeping_? Others must think she’s some lazy cow.

“Is Servis home?”

“Why, yes, he is. But he’s still sleeping. Young master likes to wake up late.”

When he speaks of Servis, he sounds more like a concerned parent than a magister’s slave. It makes Calpernia more puzzled than she’d like to admit.

“I was just about to go and wake you up, in fact. Lady Livia is coming in an hour,” he continues. “She’s the best seamstress in Vyrantium, as young master mentioned. You will be most pleased, Lady Calpernia.”

She reaches for a piece of cake; not the best idea when it comes to breakfast but she’s quite fond of sweet things.

Time passes quickly, and the seamstress arrives accompanied by two young girls. Lady Livia is a tall, thin woman who wastes no time on meaningless small talk. She kindly asks Calpernia to get on a stool and stand still. Then she orders one helping girl to take measurements while the other scribbles something down on a piece of parchment. Lady Livia watches their every move. Her eyes are dark, her lips are pressed thin as if she forgot how to smile.

Her own clothes are simple, a dark green robe, two leather belts on her waist, but even Calpernia can tell it’s a high quality fabric and the outfit fits her perfectly. She wears her hair in a high ponytail. She likes simplicity, it seems.

“It won’t be a grand social occasion, I was told,” she says. “Thus our aim is to make something _elegant_ , nothing too excessive. Do you have something in mind, my lady?”

“I trust you know what you’re doing,” Calpernia replies, blushing, having nothing better to say.

If the woman asked her to name every ruler of the Imperium since the first Archon, Calpernia would do it with no problems. History of Tevinter? Now that’s Calpernia’s specialty. On the other hand, she knows nothing about fashion.

“Of course I do. I’ll prepare three options, then, and you’ll choose the one you like most. I’ll be happy to make more than one dress for you, if you wish, my lady.”

One of the girls measures the length of Calpernia’s arm, from the wrist to shoulder, with a length of knotted string. She has cold hands that tremble slightly. Perhaps it’s her first day as Lady Livia’s apprentice. When she touches Calpernia’s forearm, her fingertips brush the scars marking Calpernia’s skin. The girl says nothing, thankfully, as if she didn’t notice anything.

“How long will it take?” she asks the seamstress, just to focus on something else. Standing in the centre of the room, wearing nothing but a short gown, she feels very much on display.

“One dress takes a week to make. If you require more options, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait longer, my lady.”

“Could you make a pair of gloves as well?”

“Certainly,” Lady Livia nods. “Whatever my lady wishes.”

Once the women are gone, Calpernia looks in the mirror. It is as if something changed in her the moment she came back to Tevinter. She’s not quite sure what exactly, but the feeling of doubt doesn’t want to leave her.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day comes when it’s time to visit a certain magister.

The bed he sleeps in is soft, he can eat and drink as much as he wants. There’s always a clean towel waiting for him in the bathing chamber, even though he never asked for one, as well as a fresh set of clothes he can choose from. Truth to be told, he feels spoiled. Not exactly a bad feeling, but still…

Interestingly enough, clothes are as complicated as everything else in Tevinter. Even the simples tunic has too many buckles and belts to be taken seriously, and yet everyone in the Imperium seems to think this is what regular people should wear. Samson _wants_ to complain but for some reason he doesn’t feel the need. Maybe he’s getting too lazy to care.

_Maybe I’m getting too old to care_ , he muses with a bitter smile, enjoying fine Tevinter wine in the warm afternoon sun.

There’s something oddly familiar in this city. Maybe that’s why he feels at ease, as if returned to some alternative version of Kirkwall. At least the architecture is similar. Everything else, especially the language, isn’t but he tries not to think about the fact that he’s literally on the other side of the world.

But then there are slaves. They try to stay invisible but it’s impossible not to see them. There’s a girl who brings them food and drinks, then takes the plates after they’re done. She never looks at them, eyes obediently staring at her own feet. There’s a young boy who  keeps the stable clean and takes care of horses. There must be someone in the kitchen as well, a skilled cook. And then there’s Posca, though the man seems more like Servis’ uncle than a slave.

Slaves in this house don’t look any different than servants Samson saw back in Kirkwall. He’s not the smartest man yet he can notice the way Calpernia acts around them. She doesn’t say a word about it, though she doesn’t have to, her small gestures betray her. How she glances at the girl who puts a tray of food on the table. How she clenches her fist so others won’t see the sparks of magic on her fingers.

Servis obviously isn’t cruel to the people serving in this house, even though they are his _slaves_ , and as far as Samson knows they have no more freedom than the paintings on the walls. It’s Calpernia’s plan to free her homeland from slavery. Now that they’ve actually come to Tevinter, the matter isn’t so obvious anymore.

When they walked the streets of Vyrantium to get to this place, he noticed others, wearing collars or plates similar to the one hanging from Posca’s neck. No one else seemed to see them, as if they were truly invisible.

_Not my problem_ , Samson decides. What an easy thing to say.

Two days pass, and he can’t say if he feels more relaxed or annoyed because of his own laziness. His headaches aren’t that bad anymore, the thoughts of lyrium don’t plague him as much as they used to. Maybe he finally believes that damn potion he has to drink every day works.

Sometimes at night, when he’s on the verge of dreaming, he hears that howling and his whole body trembles remembering the feeling of red and power it gave him. When he wakes up the next day, Samson pretends he doesn’t remember, pushing the intrusive thoughts deeper and deeper, hoping that one day he will forget.

There’s not much to do here (well, at least for him). Sleeping, reading, eating and drinking – that’s basically it. He’s can’t go out to see the famous wonders of Vyrantium Servis won’t stop blabbing about, though the smuggler has already suggested going somewhere together so the former templar could see the magnificence of Tevinter. Calpernia wouldn’t approve, Samson’s sure, so he stays in the smuggler’s house, occasionally going for a walk in the garden.

_What do those rich pricks do all day?_ , he wonders when he feels particularly bored. _All that magic aside, magisters must have dreadfully boring lives…_

On the third day, he sees the two Venatori, Calpernia’s bodyguards as Samson likes to call them, training near the stable. They’re using swords, the steel glistens in the sun as they dance. The young stable boy watches them, his eyes trying to follow every move as they swing their swords with amazing speed.

Samson observes the spectacle, wondering if the two men used to be gladiators. They certainly look like they could fight to death on an arena.

Watching them train, his hand itches. Perhaps he will ask them if he can join… _Tomorrow_ , he decides, enjoying what’s left in a bottle of sweet Tevinter wine.

He goes back inside the house when the bottle is empty. He sets it on the table in the main room, wondering how much time will pass till someone takes it to throw it away.

Not much, most likely. At times it feels like the slaves in this house see everything.

Just when he’s about to go upstairs, he notices there’s someone on the other side of the room. On a large ottoman near the window Calpernia is sitting with a book in her hands and her back perfectly straight (as always, though Samson wonders if she ever gets uncomfortable, sitting like this).

Whatever she’s reading doesn’t seem very interesting as she’s not looking at the pages but at the window instead. He observes her for a moment, then walks up to her. So deep in thoughts, she doesn’t notice him even after Samson sits down on the ottoman by her side.

“I must say I quite enjoy our little vacation here. Do you have any plans or are we staying here forever?

Calpernia turns to look at him as if she just now saw he’s here. She blinks, then closes her book.

“I’m meeting Erimond next week. I have no… suitable attire yet. Can’t go to him looking like a beggar.”

“So you’re getting the dress of your dreams?” he teases.

He’s well aware of the consequences. Having a conversation with Calpernia means that sooner or later it’ll turn into a fight. Even if they begin with talking about the weather, somehow they’ll find something to argue about.

It’s not pleasant, quarrelling with this woman, and usually ends with a massive headache. But today Samson is quite bored, so it would be good to have something like a challenge. And what better to do than talking to the most challenging person he knows.

“Making a dress takes a week,” Calpernia replies in a flat voice, seemingly oblivious to his teasing. “We’ll stay in Servis’ house for a little while.”

Samson stares at her, confused. There’s something off about her. Every other day she’d start lecturing him about the _art_ of dressmaking in Tevinter because apparently everything was an art in this blighted country, and he should show some goddamned respect.

_Did you use to lecture the Elder One as well?_ , he wanted to ask her on more than one occasion. It would only end badly for him, with a second degree burn most likely, so Samson never asked the question.

“You don’t look too happy about it.”

She waves her hand. “It’s nothing.”

She looks at the cover of the books she’s holding but her eyes are blank. Samson lets out a sigh. _You’re a terrible liar_.

He gets up on his feet, stretches and yawns. There’s something upsetting in Calpernia’s odd behaviour. Her mind is so occupied with something, she doesn’t pay any attention to what he’s saying.

When she finally speaks, her question seems completely out of place.

“Have you ever wondered how complex is the relationship between templars and the Chantry?”

Now it’s his turn to feel surprised. Calpernia looks at him in anticipation, perhaps expecting words of wisdom. _Oh, for fuck’s sake._

“It’s all pretty simple. You’re on a leash, the Chantry trains you to make you their good little soldier. Then they force lyrium in your throat and threaten to take it away if you displease them.”

“Should all templars be free from the Chantry?” Calpernia presses. Her stare makes him uneasy.

 “You’re forgetting the Templar Order is in a completely different state after the conclave and everything.”

“Yes, but let’s just assume the mage – templar war, as well as the conclave and everything that followed never happened.”

It’s so obvious she has something else in mind Samson wants to laugh.

“Well, if all that never happened then I don’t know about you, but I’d be on the streets of Kirkwall, somewhere in Lowtown. And who cares what some old ex templar thinks about the Chantry?”

“You know that’s not what I meant!” Calpernia hisses, blushing slightly.

Samson bows his head to hide his smile. She makes it so easy…

“Alright, let’s say everything is as it once was. My answer’s still the same. The Chantry’s rotten.”

She regards him for a longer while, biting her lower lip. The frown between her brows is a clear indication it’s not the answer she wanted.

“What if there are some templars that _want_ to belong to the Chantry? What would you tell them?”

“I’d tell them they’re blind fools. Actually, that’s what I said to those who decided to stay in Kirkwall. The city was on fire, people were dying, but all they cared about was protecting the Order and hunting runaway mages.” He shakes his head. “The Chantry trained them well.”

Eyes fixed at the book in her hands, she’s thinking about something she doesn’t fully want to explain to him.

“So you’re going to meet Erimond…” Samson begins, changing the subject before she can surprise him with some other brilliant question.

Calpernia nods. “Yes, and you’re coming with me.”

His confused stare is enough to make her keep talking.

“As you can imagine, I don’t have much to offer.”

“So you’re giving me to Erimond as a token of friendship?”

“Of course not!” she exclaims, her face instantly turning red. “I’m not _giving_ you to anyone, you’re a free man. This isn’t a form of slavery!”

_Then what is this exactly?_ He wonders, observing Calpernia’s reaction with amusement.

She clears her throat. Embarrassment and anger make her usually pale face crimson. “I understand if you don’t want to come.”

“Well, from what I heard, he wasn’t very popular even among your Venatori,” Samson mentions with an ironic smile. “Sounds like you’ll have to deal with a particularly annoying prick.”

“That’s why I need to be smart about this.” She lets out a sigh. “As I said, I don’t have much to offer. I may only show him that I want to be _honest_ with him.”

“Just like you did with Servis?”

She gives him a smile. “Servis was easier to convince.”

“Hopefully Erimond won’t attack me on sight. Or that he’s not going to tell the Archon everything the second he sees us.”

Calpernia lets out a sigh. “We can hope. Servis has a robe for you.”

“A _robe_? So I can pretend I’m a mage?”

“Pretending you’re Tevinter will be enough. Stop making this face. Are Tevinter clothes such a big inconvenience for you? Do you want me to contact Lavellan and kindly ask her to return your templar armour?”

Samson scoffs. “Inquisition’s arcanist probably chopped it to pieces… Shame, that was a fine armour. With just enough belts and buckles for your Tevinter tastes.”

She gives him a look, without words saying what she thinks of his sarcastic tone. At least she’s back to her regular self, seemingly annoyed by his very presence.

 

* * *

 

He breaths out, eyes never leaving his opponent. The familiar weight of a sword in his hand is comforting. This is what he knows. Perhaps it’s his sole purpose in life, to carry a sword and use it for someone else.

Instead of drinking wine, today Samson chose to train instead, asking Lucius and Berard if he can join them. The stable boy is in his usual spot, his eyes going even wider as he watches the former templar and Lucius fight.

They’ve been fighting for quite a while now, he can feel his muscles aching already. But the pain doesn’t matter as long as he can still keep the sword in his hand.

The sword is heavier that the ones he’s used to carry, heavier than Certainty – then again, that blighted sword was always so light as if it was made of paper. Or he simply didn’t feel its weight because of all that red lyrium.

Lucius moves away but not quickly enough, the tip of Samson’s sword cutting his robe open on the side. _We should practice with wooden swords_ , Samson muses, eyeing the torn fabric. If he had more strength in him left, he would have pushed the sword deeper, right in the kidney, just like he was taught during his training.

_But then again, a wooden sword is not the same as a real one…_

Lucius laughs, then theatrically throws his sword on the ground. “It seems I’ve been defeated.”

“Never give up if you’re still standing.”

“If this was a _serious_ fight, I’d be lying in a pool of blood already. You fight well. For a Marcher, that is,” he adds, flashing a grin.

Samson has a comment ready, but then his eyes notice something on the man’s side. It looks like a burn but it has a distinct shape, two winged snakes wrapped around a staff. If it wasn’t for the torn fabric, he would have never noticed it.

“This?” Lucius glances at his side. “I can see why it looks odd for someone from your part of the world…”

Samson stares at him, confused. He’s quite sure he has the same look on his face as the stable boy who continues to watch them even though they’re not fighting anymore. The boy’s eyes are impossibly wide, his mouth slightly opened.

“Some magisters brand their slaves after they buy them. To claim their purchase, you could say.” He touches it with his fingers. “Magisters wouldn’t damage a slave’s face, but any other body part that’s usually covered? Now, that’s different.”

“It was supposed to be on his back,” Berard adds. “But he wiggled too much and tried to fight, the slaver got impatient.”

“Master Anodatus thought I was _amusing_.” Lucius smiles at the memory. “He was in a good mood, I guess, or I’d be dead the day he bought me.”

“Is that magister…” Samson hesitates.

“Dead?” Lucius prompts. “Maker, I hope so.”

“He’s probably not dead yet, not with all that coin,” Berard frowns. “Wealthy people live longer. Void take him.”

“He can’t cast spells so well anymore, that I’m sure! Can’t be easy without hands.”

“What happened to his hands?” Samson asks, feeling more confused.

He doesn’t quite like the look Lucius and Berard exchange before the latter finally speaks.

“He went to the market one day, and he took us with him like always. There’s this statue of _Porthmeus_ in Minrathous. The Ferryman, as he’s called. It was where he met Lady Calpernia. Magister Anodatus attacked her, and she… She burned his hands off.”

It takes Samson a moment to fully understand what he’s hearing because Berard’s monotone voice doesn’t exactly fit the story he’s trying to tell.

“She did _what_?”

“The smell was terrible,” Lucius wrinkles his nose. “Maker, he screamed like a pig. I would have screamed as well, but I was so scared I lost my voice.”

“But… why?” Samson blurts out, shocked.

“Magister Anodatus hated them. _Incaensors_. Not worthy of magic, he always said.”

“The _what_?” Samson asks another question, feeling like he’s being left out. This is the moment when he painfully understands how little he knows about Tevinter.

“A magic–using slave. Most magisters don’t see them as _real_ mages,” Lucius explains. “They really don’t teach you people anything about the Imperium, huh?”

“You should learn the language,” Berard adds in his low voice with a heavy accent.

“I’ll let you know if I need a teacher,” Samson says with a crooked smile. “I know a saying, something about a chicken apparently? _Ad praesens ova cras pullis._ ”

Lucius laughs. “That’s a start. Though your accent is terrible.”

They pick up their weapons and go back inside for dinner. Samson doesn’t ask any more questions, and the two Venatori don’t mention the topic anymore. Yet for some reason he can’t stop thinking about it.

_Incaensor._ The word rolls off his tongue. Maybe he really should learn the language…

Tevinter seems more interesting the more he learns about this country and its people.

 

* * *

 

Days pass with more wine and training, and before he knows it, it’s time to visit the magister.

Erimond’s estate is located in the part of Vyrantium that reminds Samson of Hightown. Huge houses, flags and family crests everywhere, impeccably clean streets. On top of that, there’s magic in the air, so strong that it makes him uneasy. He briefly glances at Calpernia but it seems she doesn’t mind it at all. After all magic is part of her. For a former templar, however, just being here, in the presence of all of these powers, causes a lot of discomfort.

Their carriage passes a tall black tower, so crooked it’s impossible it still stands. Old, powerful spells keep it from collapsing on the nearby buildings. He heard about it before, back in his templar days in Kirkwall. Supposedly Tevinters use magic to keep their imperium from crumbling.

_As if they couldn’t just get rid of the old and build something new_ , he muses, glancing at the crooked tower. Form what he’s seen, there are almost no new buildings in the city, as if Tevinters were comfortable living among ruins.

Samson then looks at Calpernia who sits still, hands folded on her lap, eyes fixed on the widow or whatever she sees through it. She appears deep in thoughts, her brows slightly furrowed. The carriage wobbles on the streets paved with stones. Calpernia doesn’t move, looking more like a statue than a living human being.

If he saw her on the street he’d think she’s a noblewoman going to some fancy party. She has her long hair in a braid around her head; blue earrings that resemble water drops hang from her ears on tiny golden chains. Bracelets of gold move with a silent clang every time she moves her gloved arms. The richness of her clothes is almost dazzling, though from what Calpernia explained these are nothing but regular clothes for a noble Tevinter lady.

What she chose for tonight is a dress with padded  shoulders, two belts crossed between her breasts, and a wide belt squeezing her waist showing just how thin she is. On her small feet she’s wearing black leather shoes with heels that make her a little bit taller.

It’s not the richest dress but it works perfectly. Dressed like this Calpernia can play a role of a wealthy woman visiting her friend. Her eyes are brushed with kohl, face lightly powdered but even a layer of makeup can’t conceal all these dots on her face.

It’s not her dress or jewellery that’s the most striking feature of this new Calpernia, however. It’s her lips. The shade of red she used creates a striking contrast with her pale face and fair hair.

His eyes linger on her lips for a moment too long. Samson turns his head away, more ashamed than he’d like to admit. Deep in thoughts, she doesn’t notice his glances. He shouldn’t _stare_ at her. Feeling heat on his face, he pulls on the collar of his robe. He looks through the window, searching for something that can distract him from foolish thoughts.

The clothes he’s wearing make his skin itch; the fabric is thin, there are way too many belts on his waist and sleeves. It’s completely impractical but in this Tevinter clothing he can blend in perfectly. The robe is something like one of the Venatori spellcasters would wear. The fact that a former templar wears it sounds like a joke.

He misses the familiar weight of his armour, sword and shield. There’s a dagger by his belt, just in case they’re heading into a trap, and a knife hidden in his shoe. He won’t do much without a proper sword but then again Samson hopes they are going to _talk_ to the magister, not fight.

Hopefully Erimond will be more useful to them than he was to the Elder One. From what Samson can recall, the magister’s dealings with the Grey Wardens went to shit pretty quickly. It’s rather discouraging that their only possible ally is this blundering fool.

The carriage stops interrupting his thoughts. Samson glances back at Calpernia who nods, giving him an almost reassuring look. He puts a hood on his head, opens the door without a word and gets out. Erimond’s mansion is certainly impressive, all white marble and golden ornaments. Samson turns around to offer Calpernia his hand but his good manners go unnoticed as she’s already standing by his side, jewellery glistening in the moonlight.

“Shall we?” she asks, masking the tension in her voice with a weak smile.

Samson merely nods and follows her into the magister’s house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Ad praesens ova cras pullis is a Latin saying literally translating to “eggs today are better than chickens tomorrow”. It’s an equivalent of “a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush”. The idea of Samson knowing this saying comes from another fic of mine, Matutine, not connected to this one.   
> I know a person who went to Spain for three months, and the only thing she could say in Spanish, other than hello/goodbye/my name is… , was “Three beers, please” because she spent a lot of time going to bars. So yeah, sometimes people learn weird things in different languages.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Calpernia arranges a meeting with a magister in Vyrantium. Unfortunately, it means dealing with no other than Livius Erimond.

She doesn’t have a chance to knock as the door opens before Calpernia can raise her hand.

“Welcome, my lady,” an elf in a simple brown tunic bows down with respect. “My master awaits you.”

Seeing a collar on his slender neck the smile on Calpernia’s lips wavers for a second before she thanks him and steps inside. Just from what she sees in the hallway she can tell the owner is wealthy. Or that he’s determined to appear rich even though his family is in a serious financial crisis.

“Would you or your companion want to refresh after the ride?”

When the elf talks he keeps his eyes fixed on the floor, his head bowed. Something in Calpernia’s gut twists anxiously, a ball of anger forming in her throat.

“No, thank you. I need to speak to magister Erimond.”

“Certainly. Please follow me to the guestroom. Do not hesitate to ask if you need anything.”

Walking behind the elf, she glances at Samson who seems to be doing way better. Though she can’t help but think that even dressed in fine Tevinter robes he somehow still looks like a templar.

The elf leads them to the back of the house. It’s a large room with spacious door on the other side. There’s a marble table in the centre of the room, surrounded by two ottomans. On one of them lounges magister Livius Erimond, with a glass of wine in his hand. He looks exactly like her agents described him; big nose, black moustache and a goatee. He’s dressed in a white robe. When they walk inside the room he sets the half–empty glass on the table, and stands up, watching Calpernia like a hawk.

“So the famous fourth leader of the Venatori finally returns to her homeland.”

His lips curl into the fakest smile she’s ever seen. He gives her a nod, then glances at Samson. Thankfully, he doesn’t pay him much attention, his eyes instantly returning to Calpernia.

“Good evening, magister Erimond,” her voice echoes between the walls.

“Last time I heard about you, Lady Calpernia, you were rumoured dead at the hands of a magekiller. Yet here you stand.”

“You should know that we mages aren’t that easy to kill.”

They exchange fake smiles. Erimond has his hair lose, and looks like he hasn’t been taking care of himself for a while.

“You must tell me everything in great detail,” he gestures at the ottoman. “Wine,” he barks at the elf who scurries to the cabinet in the corner to fulfil his master’s wish.

She sits down while Samson silently stands behind her, playing the role of her bodyguard. She glances briefly at him, and their eyes meet. He looks calm, which is good, considering they might have walked into a trap.

After the Inquisition’s victory, Erimond is more or less a nobody. He doesn’t have any significant power. On the other hand he has nothing to lose and a lot to win if he decides to sell her out to the Archon. She has to either buy his support, or threaten him. Or kill him if it turns out he is working with Radonis. And she has to make her decision quickly.

When her eyes return to Erimond, he’s sitting on the other ottoman, smiling like a cat who had a bowl of cream.

Calpernia accepts a glass full of wine from the elf with a gentle, “Thank you.”

She holds the glass in her hands, contemplating the red liquid for a second. Erimond would be a fool if he poisoned her. _I’m worth more coin alive than dead, he surely knows that._

“As I said, as delighted I am to see you, Lady Calpernia, you cannot imagine how surprised I was when you contacted me.”

“Are you not one of the last surviving Venatori?” she asks, placing the untouched wine on the table.

“Of course, I am, but – ”

She doesn’t let him finish. This idle talk isn’t going anywhere, and she has to work this out as quickly as possible. “Then imagine _my_ surprise when I found out your family’s not supporting the Archon. You could benefit from working for Radonis. I imagine you’re not exactly popular after your fiasco with the Grey Wardens.”

Erimond twists his lips into an ugly snarl. He grabs the glass and drinks the remaining wine.

“Your assumption is correct,” he replies, eyeing her with poorly masked anger. “But telling the Archon I know about your whereabouts, that I’ve been in contact with you… Now that would result in my certain death. Radonis has become quite… despotic lately.”

Calpernia raises an eyebrow.

“I was… I _am_ one of the Venatori,” Erimond continues after taking a sip from his glass after the elf promptly refills it. “We didn’t support the Archon’s plans in the first place.”

It looks like he really isn’t working for Radonis. Good. Although she’s not entirely sure, Calpernia is ready to move the conversation to the real surprise of the evening.

“I have an offer for you. But first you need to know how much I appreciate honesty.”

She pauses, letting the words sink in. Erimond raises an eyebrow, tilting his head. He looks very much like a confused puppy. Well, at least he’s _listening_ to her.

“And to show you that I am nothing but honest with you, magister Erimond, I want to introduce you to someone. Not many people know he’s here. Even less know he’s still alive. I think you’ve heard of him.”

It’s as if something finally clicks in Erimond’s mind. His eyes move to the man standing behind her.

“I only ask you don’t do anything… rash,” Calpernia adds after a moment of consideration.

Samson flips the hood, revealing his face. The magister’s eye widen in shock. It’s rather dramatic, like straight from a novel; all they need is a thunder to emphasise the importance of this reveal.

It’s a dangerous gamble, since it’s unclear how Erimond will react. She has to do it, however. She doesn’t have much to offer. Showing him that she’s being honest with him, that she truly wants to cooperate (even if it’s only for a while, until she finds a better option), can grant her what she needs.

“Samson!” Erimond gasps for air like a fish taken out of water. His hand trembles, nearly spilling wine from the glass he’s holding.

Calpernia wrinkles her nose feeling something like sulphur in the air. Samson can feel it, too, since he gives her an alarmed look, his hand going to the dagger at his belt.

Calpernia raises a hand. “Consider this a sign I am nothing but honest with you, magister Erimond. I could have kept Samson hidden from you but instead I risked my own life bringing him here. He is my companion and you will address him as such.”

Erimond stares at her, looking utterly betrayed. “The Inquisitor wanted him dead!”

It sounds like an accusation, as if Samson broke some holy law by staying alive. Calpernia takes a deep breath. She’s ready to reason with Erimond, but it’s Samson who speaks instead.

“Yes, the Inquisitor exiled me and I was ready to die,” he states in a calm voice. “But I survived thanks to her, and now I’m here so it’s better for all of us if you stop acting like a moody princeling, and calm down.”

“ _Kaffas_!” the magister swears. He puts the glass back on the table with so much force the wine spills on the white marble, resembling blood.

When he speaks, he switches to Tevene, angry eyes glaring at Calpernia.

“You _saved_ him!?” he scoffs. “What you do you have of him now? Do you intend to keep the templar as your pet?”

“That's none of your concern,” she replies with a frown, purposely switching to common. Samson observes them, visibly confused.

“But it _is_ my concern, Lady Calpernia,” Erimond says, again in Tevene, completely ignoring Samson's confused stare. “One day the Archon's or the Inquisition's forces will knock on my door, and ask me about you and your templar. And I will pretend I know nothing of you, I can promise you this much. Let's say it's my gift to the last surviving leader of the Venatori,” a crooked smile appears on his lips, and he gives her a nod. Calpernia stares at him with reserve, not quite sure if he's mocking her or not.

“Then they will ask me about this man,” Erimond continues. His pompous voice somehow sounds even more arrogant in Tevene. “For now they may not know he accompanies you, but they will find out sooner or later. And I _will_ tell them everything they want to know about the Red Templar General.”

It sounds like an insult, and it surely is one, judging from the tone of his voice and the twist of his lips.

“I have a simple advice for you, Lady Calpernia. If you think he’s your _companion_ now, then surely, keep him as your plaything, if you wish… ”

“He's not...!”

Erimond waves his hand; the ring he wears on his little finger shines in the candlelight. “All I want to say is that I'd rather see his traitorous body _rot_ than help him. Be smart about it, and get rid of this man before he drags you down. Why would you ever save someone who betrayed the Elder One, it's a mystery for me.”

Calpernia narrows her eyes. It’s tiring, listening to Erimond talk. There’s a familiar tingling of magic in her fingertips but she has to resist the temptation of the powers within her calling out to her. She needs to be civil about it.

Although she _should_ let him know she has no intention of quietly listening to his insults and accusations.

“Why do you insist he betrayed Corypheus? He fought the Inquisitor and was defeated, just like you.”

“Grey Wardens were too weak!” Erimond insists, his face turning red. “I should never allow them to live in the first place. That bitch Clarel and her dumb Wardens, they had too much freedom! Alas, the Elder One needed a demon army.” An ugly frown appears on his face, a clear indication of what he thinks of the Wardens.

“But this man,” his voice changes drastically, from a whiny excuse to an angry accusation. “He did _nothing_ when master needed him most!”

Even though he doesn't understand a word they're saying, Samson can still hear the tone of the magister's voice. He glances at Calpernia with an unspoken question in his eyes. She shakes her head, hoping he understands it's best to stay quiet and let the magister talk. They need Erimond's help, after all. Certainly it's not the best decision she's ever made, not that they had other options.

Oblivious to Calpernia's thoughts, Erimond continues, his voice getting louder with every word. “The Elder One wanted to grant him power but this templar scum failed him. He failed all of us! We were ready for the master to raise and become the god we needed, but the Red Templars were too weak. Corypheus trusted them, but what did they do to stop the Inquisition? Nothing!”

Calpernia lets out a sigh. It seems this is something Erimond needed to say but there wasn't anyone willing to listen to his delusional ramblings. She should remind him he had the Elder One's _dragon_ at his command, and yet he still was defeated by the Inquisition with surprising ease. He is so desperate to blame everything on the Red Templars, he doesn't want to acknowledge his own mistakes.

“As much as I never agreed the Venatori had someone unworthy as one of our leaders, an _incaensor_ …” he mumbles something more but stops, noticing Calpernia’s frown. He clears his throat, blushing furiously. “I was fully committed to the cause. To _our_ cause. With the support of Corypheus, the Venatori could win. But the Red Templars ruined everything.”

He gives Samson one more angry look. Samson huffs in irritation.

“Lady Calpernia, this is your chance. Turn your back and walk away. I’ll deal with this traitor.”

“I don’t know what the fuck you Vints are saying,” Samson interrupts, annoyed he’s completely left out of the conversation. “But if I hear you raise your voice once again, I’ll rip your – ”

“Silence! Both of you.” Calpernia stands up and takes two steps towards the magister.

“Listen to me, Erimond,” she raises an accusing finger. It’s impolite to point fingers at other people, Sorka once told her hitting her with a stick to make her remember the words. But it’s not the right time to be polite. “Listen carefully to my offer because it’s the only chance you’ll ever get of becoming someone _important_ again.”

He wants to speak but she silences him with a glare. “Sit down and _listen to me_ ,” she adds in Tevene.

Erimond obediently plops down on the ottoman, his lips pressed in a thin line. Samson stares at her with surprise mixed with something like awe, but Calpernia chooses to ignore it, so she can focus on a more pressing matter. She needs to deal with the magister first. Only then she can reprimand this stupid templar for staring at her like a complete fool.

Feeling hot blush on her cheeks, Calpernia takes a deep breath.

“I need to get to Minrathous. I need to find a place in the city, away from prying eyes. Your family owns an estate in the city. It’s the only place your parents didn’t sell to earn enough coin to pay for your freedom. You will _give_ me that mansion. Officially, you’ll sell it to someone because you are in a dire need of money. We will deal with formalities tomorrow. And you will tell no one about our agreement.”

“And in return?” he croaks.

Calpernia’s lips twist into a bitter smile. Even threatened he still wants something. Magisters like Erimond are predictable thus easy to manipulate.

“Once I succeed, you’ll get your fortune back. You want your name to _mean something_ again, don’t you?”

“What do you…” Erimond swallows loudly.  “What do you plan to do in Minrathous?”

“I wanted to lead a revolution with the Elder One’s help. He’s dead but I’m not done yet,” she speaks in a calm voice. “In fact, I barely even started. It’s time to finally do something about it, don’t you think, Lord Erimond?”

Calpernia gives him a polite smile. Somehow this frightens him more than her angry shouts.

She turns her head to glance at Samson. She can’t quite read the expression on his face, but he looks at her with wonder that for some reason makes her feel uneasy.

“Would you care to join me for a late dinner?” Erimond’s weak voice interrupts her thoughts. He swallows and adds, forcing a smile. “Both of you, of course.”

“With pleasure,” she replies, much to his anguish.

 

* * *

 

The streets of Vyrantium are eerily empty as their carriage moves through the city. Tall, black lanterns provide enough light so the night doesn’t seem so dark. It’s not fire that burns on top of every lantern, but magic lights. Some look like ordinary flames, others have odd colours illuminating the streets with purple, green or blue light.

Samson takes a deep breath. The magic he felt in the magister’s house, and the power that’s constantly present around them, it all makes his head hurt.

His eyes move to Calpernia who once again sits silently with her back straight, looking through the window. She appears calm– _calmer_ this time. Samson hopes Erimond is proud enough he won’t betray them. Sooner or later they’ll learn how much the magister’s word is worth.

An odd thought appears in his mind, similar to the one he had when they were travelling the other way. Calpernia blinks, then she looks right at him, perhaps noticing his blatant stare.

She talked that man down, made him agree to exactly what she wanted. When she spoke to Erimond there was fire in her eyes. Samson never thought about it, yet now it’s clear why she was chosen to lead the Venatori. _Who could ever refuse her?_

Unable to resist the temptation any longer, he reaches out for her hand. As he grasps her wrist, he may almost feel how her pulse quickens.

Her gaze has a force of a spear piercing through his flesh but she doesn’t push him away. Slowly, he takes off her glove. Something like a soft gasp escapes from Calpernia’s scarlet lips. In the eerie light of the lanterns the scars on her skin are more visible than usually. She doesn’t really need gloves, the night is pleasantly warm, but she herself has a different reason for wearing gloves all the time.

_She burned his hands off_. The former slave told him. The words echo in his mind, but the danger seems completely unimportant for him right now.

Their carriage wobbles on the streets of Vyrantium as Samson bows his head to press a kiss to her palm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: this chapter was enjoyable to write, you could say, because for some reason I quite enjoy writing Erimond. Let me rephrase that: I like writing about Erimond making a fool of himself.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Calpernia finalizes her agreement with Erimond, Servis visits one of his favourite places in Vyrantium.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: here are my poor attempts at world building.  
> Comments are, as always, appreciated.

Servis is a fairly optimistic person ( _careless_ , his father claims) yet he can’t help but wonder if he made the worst mistake of his life. _Again_. Since he decided to join Calpernia, he’s been wondering about it a lot. With every passing moment the scenarios in his head get worse.

If Erimond sold them out to the Archon, Imperial soldiers will be here any minute. Servis can already picture them barging in, knocking Posca unconscious (because his most trusted servant would protect his master with his own life, _obviously_ ), then putting shackles on his hands and poisoning him with so much magebane he would go mad.

Then they’d burn down his house, all his research wasted. His father would be furious, and refuse to speak to him ever again. But then, once Servis would be beheaded as a sentence for plotting against the Archon, his father would cry endlessly after losing his only child. And thus, branded as a traitor, Crassius Servis would be forgotten.

When the clock on the wall strikes midnight, he nearly has a heart attack.

“It’s been _hours_! Why aren’t they back yet?!” he whines, accusingly staring at Posca.

“Relax, young master,” the old man says, looking far from concerned. “Talking takes time. Lady Calpernia surely convinced magister Erimond to support her cause. Perhaps they are celebrating.”

_Perhaps the Archon is celebrating capturing the last leader of the Venatori_ , Servis thinks in panic.

He can’t indulge in another disastrous scenario because he sees the back gate opening, and all his thoughts are gone. He runs to the carriage nearly tripping over his own feet, looking very much like a faithful dog celebrating its master’s return.

He opens the carriage door and glances inside to check if Calpernia and Samson both returned unharmed. Magister Erimond wouldn’t be that stupid to hurt them, though only Maker knows how he reacted when he saw the templar.

“You’re alive!”

Posca always tells him that he shouldn’t be so dramatic, but how else should he react seeing these two returning so late from Erimond’s house? He’s been worried sick, much to his surprise. He’s quite fond of Lady Calpernia while magister Erimond certainly isn’t on Servis’ list of friends.

Calpernia blinks at him as if shocked to see him. Even a layer of powder can’t conceal her freckles and the blush on her face. For a woman who’s a fearless leader Calpernia blushes surprisingly easily. Though he’s never seen her looking so crimson.

Samson moves to sit back on the seat, clears his throat, pointedly staring at the window. Servis doesn’t have the time to wonder why the man was _kneeling on the floor_ , impatient to know what took them so long.

“Is everything all right?” he sounds rather worried, his eyes glancing from Calpernia to Samson. While she now looks highly annoyed, eyes narrowed and with a frown between her brows ( _But why is she frowning at m e ?_ Servis wonders), Samson gives Servis only a slightly irritated look. There’s something like a hint of disappointment in the templar’s eyes, making the young magister wonder what exactly happened at Erimond’s estate.

“Yes, everything’s fine,” Calpernia says, and it’s the most blatant lie if Servis ever heard one. “Now, excuse me.”

She pushes him away to get out. Servis looks at Samson who just shrugs. With a huff, he goes after Calpernia.

“What did he say? It took you so long that I wasn’t sure if I should start packing and run, or…”

“Magister Erimond was kind enough to offer us dinner, so we stayed.”

She stops, takes a breath then glances back at the carriage. _Was it that bad?_ , Servis thinks in panic observing her reaction. _What did Erimond even do?_

He can’t ask her about it, not yet at least as she whispers, “Come,” before grabbing his arm and dragging him inside the house.

“What _happened_?” Servis finally asks.

“We’ll talk in a moment, I need to change first. These clothes are ridiculous.”

And just like that she’s gone before he can stop her.

“But… Lady Livia made that dress,” he mumbles more to himself than to anyone in particular.

Moments later Samson gets inside.

“Wine?” Servis offers in resignation, having nothing better to say.

“Gladly.” Samson doesn’t seem concerned in the slightest as he sits down by the table and reaches for a bottle. He rolls up his sleeves and unbuttons his robe as if he couldn’t bear wearing these clothes anymore. There’s a thin silver chain on his neck with a metal shape hanging on it. Servis never noticed it, then again it’s not like he was particularly interested in the former templar. “At least you have wine that’s worth drinking. Erimond gave us something that I can only describe as sewer water.”

“Livius Erimond is known for his bad manners,” Posca adds as he walks up to them, holding a second bottle of wine and a tray of food in his hands. “I’m happy to see you’ve returned. Is Lady Calpernia alright? She seems quite _shaken_.”

Samson snorts but offers no other comment. He grabs a piece of cake from the tray while Servis just stares at him, utterly confused. Thankfully Calpernia returns about ten minutes later, her splendid dress gone. She changed to a white robe with a leather belt around her waist. Her skin is slightly flushed after she washed her face leaving no trace of makeup.

“Lady Calpernia, are you well?” Posca asks, looking rather concerned. “Should I prepare late dinner?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” she replies. “And there’s no need. I just want to explain what happened with Erimond, then I’m going to bed.”

Servis offers her a chair but she shakes her head. She stands by the table, with her arms folded on her chest. When Samson reaches for another piece of cake she gives him an irritated look.

“What did Erimond say?” Servis blurts out, impatient.

“Too much and not enough,” she lets out a sigh. “He complained a lot, though eventually he agreed to my terms. Not that he had any other interesting options, I guess.”

Servis frowns. If everything went well, then why she seems so terribly annoyed?

“I need you to draft an agreement between you and him,” Calpernia continues. “He decided to sell you his estate in Minrathous, on paper at least, and he’s coming here tomorrow. We need to finalise the agreement between you two.”

“He’s coming _here_? To my house?” Servis lets out a groan. “I can’t deal with this man… Besides, I have a meeting tomorrow. Posca will take care of everything and sign it in my name.”

“Of course I will.” The older man shakes his head in resignation. “Whatever you wish, young master. Though it would be better if you met with lord Erimond in person.”

“What meeting?” Calpernia asks with more hints of irritation in her voice.

_You shouldn’t frown so much_ , Servis thinks. She tends to do this a lot, he noticed recently.

“I’m meeting a merchant who’s selling Tevinter relics. Supposedly he found them in Ferelden.”

“ _More_ relics?” Posca lets out a sigh. “I don’t know if you’ve seen the attic lately, young master, but the upper floor is packed with all those precious relics of yours.”

“They’re not trash!”

“I wouldn’t dare to call all those useless things trash,” the servant replies, his tone of voice saying the exact opposite. “And speaking of meeting with other people…”

Servis groans before the man can finish, knowing well where this is going. “Tristan is far away, in Marnus Pell, and has to reason to come back to Vyrantium.”

“Oh, so I see you’ve been asking about him”.

Servis feels himself blush. “We are _not_ talking about Tristan right now.”

“Talk about whatever the hell you want, I’m going to bed,” Samson announces as he gets up. “Thanks for the wine. The cake’s nice, too.”

Calpernia shoots him another glare from across the table. His eyes linger on her for a moment, then he turns to walk away. Posca, on the other hand, has an all–knowing look on his face.

Servis lets out a resigned sigh, suddenly feeling exhausted.

 

* * *

 

Meeting with the likes of Livius Erimond isn’t something Servis would gladly do. That’s why he leaves his house in the early morning, instructing Posca to take care of everything. The old man complains a bit, but he will do what he’s told. Besides, Calpernia will surely take care of everything, so why would Servis even need to be there anyway?

There are already carriages and palanquins moving through the streets as he walks to one of the parts of Vyrantium he visits every time he’s back home. The biggest square in the city is a marketplace full of all kinds of goods, packed with people no matter what time it is. If Vyrantium was a living organism, this would be its belly.

The place certainly earned its reputation. It's here that most merchants try to sell their goods, and where common people come to buy everything they need, from food or clothes to slaves.

Slave auctions are held close to a tavern. It’s too early yet, so the wooden cages are empty, but slavers will soon arrive to show off their possessions. Despite the early hour, there’s already someone advertising another auction. He stands near the empty cages, on a small pedestal so that he can be seen in the crowd. He’s a bulky man dressed in a brown robe, wearing a plate on his neck, with the name of his master on it.

“Tomorrow there’s an auction of excellent slaves at the house of Rufus!” His voice is loud and clear. “Rufus has slaves for every budget!”

He lifts up his hands to cast a spell making letters and signs appear in the air. The slaver’s name hovers above his head in bright letters next to his sigil, a raven holding a chain in its beak. One small girl gasps at the sight of this clever advertisement, staring at it with her mouth open until her mother grabs her hand and pulls her away. Others, however, don’t’ pay much attention to the man, having seem similar things so many times before. In the country where magic is not only common but also glorified, only children can be surprised by some mere magic trick.

In the centre of this establishment there's a brothel, an odd looking building designed to imitate some Orlesian mansion but terribly ruined after many years. The rich of the city don’t come here, having better establishments in other parts of Vyrantium, yet it doesn't matter since the place is doing perfectly fine. The owner, a man Servis only heard about but never actually saw, earns enough coin to get this place going. Being located so close to the docs certainly helps.

There are four enormous pillars located in the corners of the marketplace. They are old and crooked, held in place by some ancient spells. Nobody knows what would happen if the magic weakened one day. Frankly, nobody seems to care. People generally don’t look up; the rich because they don’t have to, besides they prefer to look down on others, the poor because they can’t since looking a magister straight in the eyes means certain death for them. So everyone seem to completely ignore the possibility that one day the four columns could crumble and bury the whole marketplace under piles of stones.

Everywhere sellers and buyers argue over prices, men and women from the brothel saunter around, looking for clients and advertising their place. Servis navigates through the crowd, years of experience of living in this city proving useful since he knows exactly where he should go first. All this noise around him is only slightly annoying; deep in his thoughts he can barely hear prostitutes calling out to him, and merchants shouting prices.

There’s only one place he needs to go, a small stall in the shadow of one of the pillars, far from the centre of the square. A thin, pale man greets Servis jovially, inviting him to come inside and take a look at the wonders he has to offer.

“What do you wish to buy, my good ser?” he flashes a grin, his golden tooth glistens in the light. “I have the finest treasures from every corner of Thedas.”

“What about these?” Servis points at the table next to him. “I was told you’re selling Tevinter relics.”

“My good master has a keen eye,” the man bows down. “The finest Tevinter treasures taken back to their rightful place, to our great Imperium, from the barbaric dog lords of Ferelden. This book travelled here all the way from Denerim, my good ser.”

Servis looks at the display, one eyebrow raised. There’s a broken vase (black with silver paintings of a wingless dragon; probably from the late Exalted Age), an old tome, its cover half burned though the title still visible ( _The Great Compendium of Dragons_ , most likely a fake), and a small box decorated with rubies, half of them missing. _A demon box, as simple people like to call them_ , Servis thinks, reaching out to touch it. Probably nothing more but a jewellery box, though the rubies aren’t fake. _But what’s inside?_

“Which one interests you, ser?”

“All of them.” The moment the words leave Servis’ lips, the smile on the merchant’s face widens. That’s something he surely likes to hear.

They haggle for the price, the merchant’s kindness gone and replaced by greed, but finally they come to an agreement. The price could be better, though Servis doesn’t mind spending a little bit of gold on something that _may_ prove useful to his research. His father wouldn’t agree, Posca will surely offer a disapproving comment, but it doesn’t matter. His father is far away, whereas the servant can’t do anything about Servis’ obsession with buying old relics that other would consider trash.

He pays more coins to have it delivered to his house, then feeling rather cheerful he decided to go for a late breakfast to the nearby tavern. His good mood disappears when he comes back home an hour later.

The fence around his mansion is broken in one place, he should do something about it, but if it got fixed he wouldn’t be able to get in this way. A hole in the fence doesn’t bother Servis as much as it should. Local burglars already know there’s nothing worth their attention inside the estate of magister Crassius Servis since he wastes all his coin on useless things. Who would want to steal some painting of Andraste? Or a pile of old books?

Servis pushes the door open and steps inside a spacious kitchen. No self–respecting magister would even think about coming to a house through the back door. It’s a good think that Servis isn’t quite the model Tevinter magister.

A lady in an apron gives him a look. She doesn’t seem surprised to see him in the slightest, on the contrary she seems rather amused though she tries to hide her smile before Servis can notice it.

“Coming through the servant door again, young master? What will the neighbours think?” She shakes her head and goes back to chopping pieces of meat.

“Please, Ada , if I cared that much about what my neighbours think, I wouldn’t do anything at all,” Serivs replies, grabbing a piece of cake from a tray. “Is Lady Calpernia busy?”

“She’s with magister Erimond, and Posca’s with them. The magister came late, then declined the offer to stay for breakfast,” she shakes her head and makes a face as if Erimond personally insulted her. “He doesn’t seem… too happy to be here, if I may add, young master.”

“Erimond’s still here?” Servis groans. He should have stayed in the tavern longer instead of coming back right away.

With a heavy sigh, he walks to the main room where all his guests are seated by a table. Calpernia glances at him briefly, then her eyes go back to look at a document in her hands. Talia, that Orlesian girl with a scar on her face, is sitting next to her. She looks tense, like someone forced her to be here. From what Servis already knows about her, she forced herself to do this so she could watch over Lady Calpernia.

_Don’t you have especially devoted followers…,_  Servis muses, giving Calpernia one more look before his eyes move to the person sitting on the other side of the table.

Erimond is impeccably dressed in a white robe with a high collar. From the strong smell in the air one could think the magister bathed in perfume. His chair is moved slightly back as if he was getting ready to run away any minute. An elf in a brown tunic stands behind him, unmoving, head bowed and eyes fixed on the floor. He’s holding Erimond’s staff which is taller than him, white as his master’s robes, the top shaped like a dragon’s claws with a huge sapphire between them.

“Crassius Servis,” Erimond barks, offering no other form of greeting.

Servis gives him a nod. “What a pleasure to see you, magister Erimond,” he lies with a bright smile.

Erimond purses his lips, not amused in the slightest. “I was actually leaving. Lady Calpernia was kind enough to allow your slave to sign the agreement in your name.”

The frown on Calpernia’s face deepens. She opens her lips, looking like she could snap any second. Thankfully Posca speaks first.

“I’m terribly sorry to hear you’re leaving already, master Erimond. Would you like one more glass of wine? Shall I pack a bottle or two for you? A gift of my master’s friendship.”

“How convenient for you, to have your slave speak for you all the time,” Erimond gives Servis a look of disdain. “But there’s no need for gifts. Our _special agreement_ is enough, I think. I wish you all good day.”

He gives Calpernia a nod, then glances at Servis once more. His slave rushes to open the door for him. Once they’re gone, Calpernia lets out a heavy sigh.

“It is done,” she says. She folds the document and gives it to Posca. “Please put it somewhere safe. If we lose it we’ll have to deal with that man again.”

“So what should we do now?” Servis asks, curious. Calpernia seems to always have a plan; she most likely already knows what they’re going to do next.

“We need to think about a way of getting to Minrathous. Now, however, I need a break, if you excuse me,” she adds and gets up. “Dealing with Livius Erimond is quite exhausting.”

She goes upstairs with Talia, leaving Servis with an odd feeling that perhaps this is just the beginning of their problems.

 

* * *

 

Calpernia puts her hands behind her to hide the fact they’re trembling ever so slightly. She blames the morning air for the coldness she feels (even though deep down she knows it’s not entirely true).

There are stars still visible on the sky although it’s so close to sunrise. The world around them is grey and silent, not ready to wake up yet. Her trusted companions, Lucius and Berard, are ready to travel.

_Everyone leaves, one by one_. The though appears in her mind for a split second, and she feels foolish for even thinking that.

“Did you get enough sleep, Lady Calpernia? Did you sleep at all?” Berard asks. Even his rough accent can’t mask the concern in his voice.

She gives him a reassuring smile. “I’ll get some rest once you’re gone, don’t worry.”

The way he looks at her is a clear indication how worried he is. Lucius appears calmer yet there’s also a glimmer of worry in his eyes. They don’t seem concerned about their mission, and the dangers it entails; they are worried about her.

_You shouldn’t be_ , she wants to tell them both. Instead she can only embrace them and wish them good luck before they get on their horses. Lucius gives her one more reassuring smile, Berard nods. A young stable boy opens the gate, and then they’re gone.

No goodbyes are needed because they will see each other again. Or so she hopes.

Calpernia goes back to her room, with each step feeling more ill. There’s something whispering in her ear, reminding her how many times she’s seen people leave never to return. She forces herself to fall asleep, despite the danger of having yet another nightmare. In her dreams she wanders aimlessly, as if she was trying to flee from something. She could never quite understand her dreams.

When she wakes up it’s almost noon, and she curses herself for sleeping so long. She takes a quick bath, dresses in one of the robes Posca prepared for her, the purple one with long sleeves. Once she’s dressed, she glances at the mirror; without the makeup and jewellery she looks like her old self again.

There’s a knock on the door.

“Lady Calpernia, I’m sorry if I interrupt…” Talia begins in a timid voice. But she’s not afraid to look other people in the eyes anymore, which is a big step forward. “I’d like to ask your permission. Ontario and Sorren are going to the marketplace. I’d like to go with them.”

“You don’t need my permission to do anything. If you want to go, then go, Talia. Do you need more coin?”

“No!” she hastily replies, blushing. “I didn’t come to you to ask for coin, Lady Calpernia. I, uh… Is there something you need? From the marketplace. Servis claims they sell _everything_ there.”

“Of course he does. Listening to him one could think Vyrantium is the greatest city in the world,” Calpernia smiles. “No, thank you, I don’t need anything. But it’s kind of you to ask.”

Talia blushes even more, her face gets as red as her hair. Once the girl is gone, Calpernia quickly braids her hair. She glances at a pair of gloves, but after a moment of consideration she decides to leave them.

She gets downstairs to ask someone if she could get something to eat. Servis is nowhere to be found, he probably went to the marketplace as well. Posca’s not in his usual spot, and the place seems empty.

Except there _is_ someone in the main room. Someone Calpernia didn’t expect to see here, and certainly not looking like this.

Samson is lounging on the ottoman, his tunic unbuttoned, sandals thrown carelessly on the floor. He’s got a cup of wine in his hand and a half empty bottle within his reach.

He’s been training, like any other day, supposedly having nothing better to do. His recovery goes well, and he stopped complaining about the potion he has to drink. She’s never noticed it until now, but he also put on some weight. He’s strong enough he can fight Lucius and Berard with ease. He can defeat them both, which makes Calpernia wonder just how skilled the former templar is. Or if she should be worried because despite their training, two Tevinter fighters are no match for some southerner trained by the Templar Order.

For a moment Calpernia stands in place, unable to move, because seeing Samson looking so… _relaxed_ is strange, to put it mildly.

The image of him leaning in to grasp her hand and peel off her glove doesn’t want to go away. It seemed odd at first, Calpernia’s surprise was so great she didn’t know how to react. Then it got even more confusing as he kneeled down and pressed a kiss to her palm, the gesture quite confusing but also endearing in some inexplicable way.

He meant to tell her… what exactly, Calpernia wasn’t sure. Just when she gathered enough courage to ask, they arrived at their destination and Servis opened the carriage door, and the moment was gone.

Samson didn’t bother to explain why he did it. Not that she directly asked him about it. She wouldn’t think about avoiding him, of course not, though the situation makes her think that now he knows something she doesn’t. He doesn’t seem concerned about what happened in the slightest while can’t quite grasp the reason why it happened in the first place.

And just like that Calpernia is overthinking the whole thing again.

She shakes her head, angry at herself for all these nonsensical thoughts, and walks to Samson, pretending she doesn’t feel the blush on her face.

“Wine?” he casually asks, grabbing the bottle. “I gotta say, if anyone ever asks me to praise your homeland for one thing, I’ll choose wine.”

_You shouldn’t drink so much_ , Calpernia wants to say but doesn’t. For some unspecified reason she finds it hard to speak right now.

“Have you seen Servis?” she finally says.

He shrugs. “No, I haven’t, though we don’t spend much time together.”

Suddenly there’s a loud _thud_ that makes the ceiling shake. They both look up, alarmed. Calpernia rushes to the stairs to check what’s the source of this commotion, and when she glances behind she sees Samson following her.

“Someone’s in the attic,” he says, walking so close to her it’s a miracle he doesn’t step on her robe.

_I know, and I didn’t ask_ , Calpernia wants to hiss but there’s another _thud_ , louder than before.

She hasn’t been here before, yet she pushes the door open without any hesitation feeling magic in the air.

“Nothing happened, everything’s under control!” Servis assures them though from the look on his face it’s obvious he’s not quite sure about it himself.

There’s a magical ring drawn on the floor, surrounded by five glowing crystals. Calpernia squints at the runes and recognises the Cirlce of Binding _,_ though prepared rather carelessly.

To say the room is messy would be a grave understatement. There are piles and piles of books on the floor and shelves, most of them covered by a thick layer of dust. Other than that, there are _things_ everywhere, on every possible surface. Vases, caskets and maps; figures of the Old Gods standing right next to a wooden figure of Andraste. Paintings in various shapes, most of them illustrations of the _Chant of Light_ or portraits of historical figures. Just looking at this mess gives her a headache.

“Experimenting with magic at home?” Samson asks, his tone of voice making clear what he thinks about it. “If we were in any other country, you’d be locked up in a dungeon in a heartbeat.”

“Thankfully Tevinter significantly differs from other countries,” Calpernia retorts before she can stop herself. Realising she just how harsh she sounds, she feels herself blushing.

“What are you trying to do?” she quickly asks Servis.

“Well, I bought this,” he points at a small box decorated with rubies in the centre of the magical ring. “But the merchant claimed the lock is broken, so it can’t be opened.”

“Why would you buy a broken thing?” Samson frowns. “And why are you using magic instead of simply smashing it open?”

“I don’t want to damage what’s inside!”

“But you _don’t know_ what’s inside…”

Servis nods vigorously. “Yes, and that’s why I need to be _careful_ about it.”

“Should I call for Posca?” Calpernia hesitates.

“I sent him to do some shopping. It’s better if I don’t hear his endless complaining. What an old man like him can know about magic anyway!”

“You sent your servant away so he wouldn’t complain so much about the stupid thing you’re about to do? How convenient.” Samson snorts.

“You wouldn’t believe how much he talks!”

_You should draw the circle again_ , Calpernia thinks, kneeling down to inspect the drawings on the floor. Her eyes move to the small box. The rubies seem to glow, though she’s not sure if they did a moment ago.

Confused, she looks at Servis to ask him about it, but he’s not there, and the whole world around her disappears as if someone covered her eyes with a black shawl.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When one has to face their dreams and hope turns into despair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I never thought I’ll get this story to twenty chapters, and yet here we are.  
> All my love goes to the people who read this fic. Yes, all three of you.  
> On a side note: this chapter wins the award for the vaguest summary ever. I’m terrible at writing in general but writing summaries is the bane of my existence.

Her dreams has always been like that. Short and pleasant, or so she thinks because truth to be told she never remembers any of them. To be honest, she doesn’t pay much attention to them, since her own life now is better than any dream she’s ever had.

She opens her eyes and sits up on her bed. The sun’s up, sounds of metallic clangs coming through the open window. She gets up, the wooden floor is cold under her feet as she walks to the window.

Her hair released from its usual braids cascades over her shoulders. She’s wearing a white gown reaching down to her ankles. The fabric is thin but she doesn’t feel cold since the day is pleasantly warm, like every other day.

For a second she wonders why the weather never changes, as if thanks to some spell, but then her thoughts are distracted by the sound of swords clashing loudly. She looks down at two men training on the lawn below.

The smaller one works for her, not as a slave – there aren’t any slaves around her anymore, only free men. She bites her lower lip, staring at the man. She can never quite remember his name… Thinking about it gives her a headache, so she moves her eyes to the other man, his broad shoulders and two golden dragons embroidered on the back of his armour.

His helmet is nowhere to be seen, he probably left it in the armoury. His hair is growing back, she should ask him if he wants her to cut it. He always keeps his hair so short. Nothing changed about him since she last saw him, so long ago, in another life. Who would have thought they would both return to the house of their former master, and live here no longer as slaves but as free people.

_I am at peace_ , Calpernia thinks.

A faint smile touches her lips as she gazes at the man. She observes him for a longer while, hoping he turns around and look at her with those bright blue eyes. Focused on the fight he probably doesn’t even know she’s watching him. He attacks, the other man blocks, their swords clash again with a loud clang.

There’s no collar on his neck anymore, and even though no one forces him to train, he’s so used to the routine he feels the need to do it every day.

_Read one of the books for me, Calpernia._

In the evening perhaps, once they’re both tired but not sleepy enough to go to bed, they’ll sit by the fireplace, his arm wrapped around her as she reads from one of many books she loves.

_Nothing about mages this time._

She frowns, trying to remember why exactly he doesn’t like it when she talks about magic. She’s a mage herself, then why…

Something tells her it’s not right, but the thought is gone before she can ponder on it further. Her eyes return to the man training below.

Her peaceful morning is interrupted, quite suddenly, when the door to her bedroom swings open and a stranger gets inside, nearly tripping over and falling down on his face. He looks at Calpernia with his big bright eyes full of relief.

“Thank the Maker I found you!”

Calpernia tilts her head her head slightly as she regards him. There’s something familiar about this man, in a way she doesn’t understand. He’s wearing a white robe with many buckles and belts, and a hood, similar to the ones that old cult, the Venatori, used to wear. She herself was one of them, long time ago though she can’t remember when it was.

_Don’t think about the past_ , a voice whispers in her ear, the voice she knows and loves. _Focus on the present. After all this time, you deserve to rest._

“Who are you?” She frowns at the stranger, raising up her hand ready to cast spells if provoked. “How did you get in here?”

His eyes widen as he observes her in shock. The man doesn’t move, though Calpernia takes a step back, readying herself to fight if needed. The door behind his back disappeared, but then again it‘s never been there in the first place, she’s sure.

“My name’s Servis, it will all come back to you,” he says in a voice with hints of panic, making a face as if he was a sad little puppy. “I know it’s hard but try to focus. We have to get out of here.”

“Get out of _where_?” She frowns. How dare he barge in here like that!

With a wave of her hand she will send him flying back and knock him down. But nothing happens this time, her powers not responding to her calling.

She looks at her hand, tries to summon her magic, again with no result. Calpernia opens her lips, confused as to what she should say. Then she stares at the man in front of her as if he held all the answers. He gives her a sad smile. He surely looks like a mage, did something happen to his magic as well?

“One of the reasons why we have to get moving. Try to remember me, Lady Calpernia. You need to focus.”

She can barely hear him, eyes fixed on her own hands. No scars are visible on her pale smooth skin, but she’s sure she had scars, on her hands as well as on her back, from the lashes, cuts, and failed spells.

The metal clangs gets louder. Startled, Calpernia looks at the two man fighting below. The servant boy, what was his name again? Why can’t she remember his name? The taller man fights with his back to her, and she calls out to him in her thoughts. She takes a step forward.

“No, please, stay away from him! This isn’t real!”

She pays no attention to the stranger’s plea, though some part of her mind registers how desperate he sounds. Calpernia’s eyes are fixed at the man with the sword, at the two dragons embroidered on the back of his armour. In the morning sun they glisten as if they were truly alive.

_Turn around. I need to see your face!_

She’s running towards him; how did she get down here so quickly she doesn’t know though it doesn’t matter. Panic rising in her throat, she has to see him, she needs to hear him say that everything’s alright.

“Marius!”

Her voice echoes in the sudden silence. The servant boy has vanished, maybe he never existed at all. Marius stands still, sword lowered, his back straight. Calpernia takes another step forward, then another until she’s so close she can reach out and touch his shoulder. He’ll turn around and give her a reassuring smile. He _has_ to.

“Don’t!” that man, Servis, shouts, his voice echoing in some strange, unnatural way, but it’s too late.

Marius turns around, the smile on Calpernia’s face disappears because it’s not him, it’s never been him but some wile creature with grey, loose skin and a maw full of sharp teeth. It _shrieks_ , the sound chilling Calpernia to the bone. Her hope shatters, and she stumbles backwards, terrified. She’s not wearing a white nightgown anymore, but leather clothes she wore when she travelled (but when and where she cannot say).

The creature shrieks again, unleashing a wave of cold. Calpernia trembles, her hands shaking as she feels all her power disappear, leaving nothing but emptiness behind. The demon moves close, its hand reaching out to her.

Suddenly a ball of fire hits it right in its chest, and it roars in pain as its robes burn uncovering a deformed, twisted body beneath, covered by a layer of frost.

“Burn it!” Servis shouts at her, reading another spell. “We need to burn it!”

Calpernia blinks back the tears gathering in her eyes. She can’t move, overwhelmed by fear, eyes fixed at the vile thing in place of a man she longs to see.

Another ball of fire flies in the air, but this time the creature moves in a blink of an eye, avoiding the spell. It’s too fast and powerful, its claws grabbing Servis’ robes and lifting him up. He screams, tries to get out but the creature’s iron grip is too strong.

The demon’s howl makes everything around them cold and covered by a layer of frost. Calpernia shivers, too afraid to move, her body slowly freezing, her powers silent.

The creature’s spell is so powerful she feels like she could be crushed any second, like the power she’s witnessing is too great to comprehend. Fear clutches her heart, making her paralysed.

Just like that time when a book she was holding in her hands burst into flames. It was the one and only time when magic made her afraid. But since then…

The familiar tingling in her fingertips returns, and soon a small flame appears in her hand. So small yet so _warm_ , melting away the cold. The demon turns its head in her direction, alarmed, then tosses Servis on the ground and flies forward, shrieking, ready to tear her into pieces.

It takes all her willpower to stand up and lift her hands. Light erupts above her head making fire appear out of nowhere. Her arms are shaking but she won’t– she _can’t_ give up or else the demon wins.

It all comes back to her, and she bends the element to her will, commanding flames to protect her, create a barrier that shields her from the shrieking creature. The cold numbness she felt melts, as the fire burn bright and high.

Engulfed in flames, the demon howls for the last time until the fire consumes him completely, leaving nothing but a pile of black dust.

_It’s dead._ Calpernia lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. With a single gesture of her hand she makes the fire disappear. She feels drained and tired, breathing heavily, but the magic in her veins calms her down.

Servis gets back on his feet, groaning. Calpernia is by his side moments later.

“Are you alright?”

She remembers him now, her mind no longer held prisoner by the demon. It’s still unclear how they got here (and where _here_ is exactly), but at least this time she’s certain what’s real and what’s not.

“More or less.” Servis gives her a faint smile. “Good thing that I remember that despair demons are vulnerable to fire. Shit, I’ve never been so cold in my life.”

“I should have listened to you, but it all seemed…”

“Real?” he nods. “Yeah, the Fade plays tricks on us.”

“We really are in the Fade, then.” Calpernia glances around, her brows furrowed. Thankfully her magic is back so she can fight with this uneasy feeling that wants to overpower her.

If they are in the Fade it means that they’re asleep in the real world. And what she usually gets when she goes to sleep are nightmares. The more pressing matter, however, is that they are here _together_ , and they need to get out before whoever or whatever holds their minds prisoner decides to trap them here forever.

Moments ago she could see her dream, she believed it was true. She doesn’t want to think about it now, ashamed. All around them there’s a vast space of nothing and everything at the same time. The sky has an odd shade of green, there are rocks and hills in the distance while they stand amidst piles of rubble.

There are five different paths each with a door at the end. They all seem the same. Calpernia regards them for a while. _We need to move before it’s too late._

“We should find the right path, and then the right entrance,” Servis says. “It wasn’t too hard for me to get to your dream, but now it’s like this place wants to keep us here. So, any ideas how we can get out?”

“This way,” Calpernia says, pointing at a path to her right.

“Are you sure this is the right one?” he asks, worry clear in his voice. “I don’t want to wander aimlessly. There are too many records about people’s souls getting lost in the Fade.”

“This is the right way,” Calpernia states. Her own confidence comes as a surprise, yet she knows she’s not wrong. She can’t be, for reasons she doesn’t understand.

Servis seems frightened, anxious, whereas Calpernia… _Why am I not afraid?_

She was, very much so, when the despair demon nearly killed her. Now, however, all her fear is gone. Is it because she feels her magic again? She looks at the path in front of them. If she squints, she can see a door at the end. There are many paths around them, and many doors. How she can know this is the right one?

“This is the right way,” she repeats, louder this time, perhaps to convince herself.

When they begin walking, the distance changes somehow. Once they are so close to the door Calpernia nearly reaches out to touch it, but then she blinks and the path seems endless, the door so far away she can barely see it.

“How are we supposed to get out on our own?” Servis asks, staring at the vast space around them. “What if something happens to our bodies while we’re here?”

“The demon wants us to despair,” she hisses, gathering magic in her hands. It’s not easy, her power seems distant, but the more she tries the easier it gets. Soon she has a ball of fire forming in her hand, its warmth comforting.

“It’s not difficult for you? Magic, I mean,” Servis stares at her in disbelief. “I can barely feel my own powers. It’s like someone’s blocking it. That’s why I couldn’t do much when that demon attacked you.”

“You need to focus more,” she replies, avoiding his curious gaze. Truth to be told, she doesn’t know why she can do it. Maybe it’s some Fade trick, and Servis is more vulnerable.

“Let’s go,” Calpernia adds. “We need to get out of here.”

“Easier said than done…” Servis grumbles, looking utterly miserable.

Calpernia glances behind one more time. There are islands hovering in the sky, unspecified shapes similar to clouds moving through the air even though there’s no wind. A loud sound like a thunder comes from a distance, and something explodes in the sky, shining brightly like a firework.

Then she sees a dark shape so far away she could never reach it, and yet it’s visible enough she’s almost sure it’s real. A dark city on top of an enormous mountain. Another trick? But what if it’s real? Calpernia’s heart skips a beat when some unexplained longing erupts in her chest.

_The City. It was supposed to be golden but it was black and empty, with no Maker on the throne_ , Corypheus once said. What if he was telling the truth? What if it’s possible to check whether the Black City really exists?

“Calpernia?” Servis’ voice pierces through her thoughts. “Are you alright?”

She takes a deep breath. “Yes,” she lies. “Let’s move. We can’t be far.”

It’s impossible to tell how long it takes them to reach the door. The land around them shifts constantly, dark clouds gather above their heads. The path under their feet is the only constant, and yet Calpernia feels they need to hurry because it will, too, change and they will be lost forever.

There are _things_ hiding all around them; these nightmarish creatures holler and growl, but never show themselves. Perhaps defeating the despair demon earned Servis and Calpernia some respect. Or maybe these creatures prefer to wait patiently until the two human souls get trapped here, and then they will strike. Just another reason to hurry up.

“Shouldn’t we, ah, wait and see if nothing _horrifying_ crawls through?”

Servis regards the door with worry painted on his face. Calpernia looks around but there’s nothing unusual here other than the fact that the door’s hovering slightly above the ground.

“There’s no use waiting,” she says, more to herself than to him. “Let’s go.”

She pushes the door open, hears Servis gasp, then feels his hand reaching for hers as they step into the light.

Moments later the light is gone, they’ve been transported somewhere and the door vanished.

“Are we… in Tevinter?” Calpernia glances around, confused.

The buildings have a distinctive though rather old–fashioned Tevinter style. The ground under their feet is paved; they seem to be in some sort of a square, near a huge gate that leads to a small docking area.   

“This place does seem very Tevint– _oh_.”

Servis makes a sound like a choked gasp, his eyes go wide, and he mumbles something to himself. Then he grabs Calpernia’s hand and pulls her behind a stone pillar.

“What’s wrong?” she whispers. Now it’s her turn to feel completely confused.

Servis gives her a panicked look. “The good thing is that I know where we are. The bad thing is that I now remember exactly what happened, and why we’re in this mess. And, _uh_ … And who else got trapped in here.”

Calpernia frowns. “Are you going to tell me, or..?”

Servis takes a deep breath. “The place looks Tevinter because it is. Well, it _used_ to be. Always wanted to come to this city, in fact. Unfortunately I never got a chance. At least I get to see it now, ha ha…”

“ _Servis_.” Calpernia’s hiss is enough to make him talk more coherently.

“Right, sorry, let’s go back to the topic.” He wipes his forehead. It’s not hot in here, the temperature is hard to describe, though for some reason he’s sweating profusely.

“This is all my fault. I accidentally unleashed a demon. Remember that thing I wanted to open? It turns out it really is a demon box. But how would I know?!”

Calpernia narrows her eyes at him, as memories slowly come back to her. There was a magical ring painted on the floor, she kneeled down to inspect it. And in the centre of it there was…

She gasps when the realisation comes.

“How could you be so stupid…!”

He raises his hands to stop her. “I know, I know, _impulsive decisions_ should be my middle name. You’ll scold me later. Andraste’s ass, Posca will never stop talking about it. If we get out of here, that is.”

“So we’re trapped inside our own memories?”

He nods. “The demon feeds from our memories and dreams. Mine was… Well, let’s say it was complicated. Thank the Maker you didn’t have to see that mess… I found you, though I’m not entirely sure _how_ I was able to do that in the first place. Fade shenanigans, I guess.”

Calpernia lets out a sigh. She was never particularly interested in the matters of the Fade, though she wasn’t that ignorant to dismiss the dangers of getting lost in this place. It was tempting for some, exploring the land of dreams. So tempting that many mages got lost and never returned to the land of the living, their bodies possessed by demons while their spirits withered in the Fade.

“The demon wanted to lock us up in some messed up version of our idyllic dream, or something like that,” Servis continues. “Merging memories with our most desired dreams. Something that we wish had happened? But it never will happen be because it’s simply too good to be true. Once we get back, I need to get some books about the Fade…”

“Why not torment us instead? The demon already has us in its power.”

Servis shrugs. “Maybe it likes toying with people. Besides, who knows if our dream wouldn’t gradually change into a nightmare.”

“So where are we?” Calpernia prompts. She has a vague idea, yet she needs to hear it before she truly believes it.

“We already saw our dreams,” Servis says, his voice getting more panicky with every word that leaves his mouth. “But there was one more person near the demon box when I opened it. And this… Well, I believe this is Kirkwall, and we’re about to see a lot of templars.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N2: Not sure if this chapter works the way I wanted…  
> But hey, Crassius _impulsive decisions_ Servis finally does something to remind everyone that he is, in fact, a mage.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting out of the Fade proves to be complicated.

Calpernia looks around, wishing it was a joke. Perhaps it is a joke, a cruel one; the demon that trapped them here is surely laughing. The world spins, and for one long moment she’s afraid she’s going to faint. She takes a deep breath, but she’s far from being calm.

„This cannot be real.”

“Well, it is. But it also isn’t,” Servis frowns. “The Fade is confusing…”

“He’s _not_ a mage! What would a demon want from him?”

“Whatever demons usually desire, I believe. We can’t know for sure until we face it.”

 “Then _where_ is he?!”

A group of four templars looks straight at them. Servis gasps, wants to take a step back but Calpernia grabs his hand and holds him in place. The templars seem like ordinary people, two women and two men, yet there’s something unnatural about them. She can’t quite explain it, maybe it’s the way they look at them – as if they didn’t really see them, their glassy eyes looking straight through them.

“We need to stay calm,” Calpernia says, more to herself, her voice slightly louder than a whisper. “What are they? Memories? Demons that pretend to be human?”

“I’m not sure if I want to check,” Servis mumbles. “I wonder if the stories are true. You know what they say about templars in the south, and what they do to mages…”

“We need to find Samson and get out,” Calpernia says; she looks away from Servis so he won’t see the distress in her eyes. “The sooner, the better.”

She glances around at the tall walls, the building in the distance that has to be the infamous Circle of Kirkwall; she scans the faces of people, searching for the one who has to be trapped here.

Samson hated the Circle, Chantry and all that. Then why his dream shows the place he claims to loath? Calpernia bites her lower lip.

“This dream, or whatever it is, seems overly complicated,” Servis adds. “It won’t be easy to…”

“Then we better get to work,” she gives him a harsh look, her brows furrowed.

Templars stand in small groups all around the place. They seem to be talking but when Calpernia looks at them they’re standing still, their faces blank as if they only moved when she paid no attention to them. A chill runs down her spine at the memory of what they could do, how easily they would make all her magic disappear if she provoked them. She glances at Servis, and he seems even more distraught.

They walk around, trying to stay away from the templars. They don’t _seem_ real, though Calpernia suspects they could become real enough to attack them if they made a mistake.

There’s a staircase leading up to another building, the Circle as Calpernia suspects, though the stairs are behind a gate which appears locked. _To keep the intruders out or the mages in?_ , she wonders, her lips twisting into a bitter smile.

“Should we go in there?” Servis asks.

“Perhaps it would be wiser to just wait and see what happens.”

“What if nothing happens? Or worse, what if something _does_ happen and we have to fight another demon?”

“Stay calm,” she urges, though she understands his concerns.

There are three stalls by the gate, two of them empty while there’s a mage standing by the last one. He’s selling various pieces of armour, most of them damaged and then repaired, though there are some brand new gloves and chestplates among the used ones.

He has a narrow face, bright eyes, and dark hair cut short. He’s wearing a simple blue robe with a hood. He’s folding something in his hands, and when Calpernia squints at him, she can notice he’s making a small figure out of a piece of paper.

The gate opens, a templar walks out and stops by the mage’s stall. He inspects a piece of armour in his hands. He has a crest of Kirkwall embroidered on his back, like every other templar from this place; his dark brown hair reaches down almost to his shoulders. From where she’s standing Calpernia can’t see his face, yet for some reason this man looks more real than the other templars, making something twist anxiously in Calpernia’s gut.

The mage looks up and a wide smile appears on his face.

“My favourite templar!” he laughs.

“The one and only who tolerates your foolish escapades, you mean,” the templar replies.

Calpernia blinks. _I know this voice._

She exchanges a look with Servis who appears equally surprised. He points at the templar, mumbles something incomprehensible. Calpernia shakes her head. _It cannot be._

But then the man turns and she can barely believe what she sees with her own eyes.

Well, it _is_ Samson, but the thing is that… He’s significantly younger, no longer marked by time and life full of hardships. His eyes are brighter, no longer narrowed with distrust but full of something that she could only describe as joy. He still has a stubble on his face, but his skin is smoother, no longer sickly pale. Not to mention his hair, not slicked back, lose and considerably longer.

He stands tall, looking perfectly comfortable in his templar armour.

“ _Oh_ ,” Servis says, the one syllable full of disbelief and shock. Calpernia takes a deep breath; she couldn’t have said it better.

Samson and the mage continue talking, oblivious to the two Tevinters staring at them.

“Another one?” Samson scoffs at the paper shape in his companion’s hands. “Can’t you wait two days without writing another silly letter to your lady?”

“They’re not silly! My heart can’t wait that long. Perhaps one day you’ll understand.”

There’s a paper bird in the mages hand. Samson grabs it and put it in a pouch on his hip.

“What if I get caught?”

The mage laughs again, patting Samson on his shoulder. “Do you think delivering letters from a lovesick mage is a serious offence? I believe Knight–Commander would be most forgiving if she found out. I mean, what’s the worst thing that could happen because of some harmless letter?”

There aren’t any pieces of armour on the stall, but rows of paper birds covering every inch of the surface. Calpernia blinks in confusion, and then vision is gone in an instant. Did she just imagine that or is the Fade once again playing tricks on her mind?

She remembers now, one of the songs bards play across Thedas, the one composed after the Inquisitor’s nemesis was finally defeated.

_I shouldn’t be allowed to see this_ , she thinks, suddenly feeling ashamed. Just like that fateful day in the Temple of Dumat when she was so desperate, and in her imprudence she forced him to reveal one of his secrets. Perhaps his only secret.

“Who made it?” she asked him.

“A friend. He was a mage.” Samson’s voice was hollow.

“What happened to him?” she pressed, despite knowing she shouldn’t

“I let him die for me.”

Servis saw a parts of her foolish dreams and wishes, yet it didn’t seem to matter that much. This, however, feels almost as if she was spying on Samson. As if she was robbing him of something he deeply cares about, of something he wants to hide from the whole world, from her as well.

“This is our chance.”

Calpernia can barely register that Servis is speaking.

“Get ready to… well, I don’t know what,” he continues, “but I imagine it’ll all go to shit pretty quickly once we intervene.”

“Servis… _stop_!”

She wants to grab him but he’s already out of her reach. Calpernia watches, completely paralysed, as Servis walks straight to the templar and the mage.

“Samson! I never thought I’d say this but it’s good to see you.”

Servis tries to be his regular self, yet she notices the uncertainty in his voice. He lacks his usual confidence, cautious not to get too close to the templar.

Samson stares at him, confused. “I know you? Are you… a mage? I’ve never seen you in the Gallows.”

“The Gallows, yes, what a wonderful name,” Servis forces a laugh. “But to answer your question, you do know me. It’s all awfully confusing, and I’m afraid we don’t have time for explaining it now. But it will be great if you just try to remember me.”

“Who in the void are you?” Samson growls.

Calpernia knows this tone; it’s incredible how little he changed although he looks so different. The mage glances at Servis curiously, the smile never living his lips.

“Crassius Servis at your service. Perhaps you remember this line? After everything that happened, it seems like we met ages ago.”

Calpernia forces herself to move and react before Servis’ carless blabbing gets them in even more trouble. Once she stands by his side Samson gives her a look full of distrust, and the sheer intensity of his glare nearly makes her take a step back.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” he asks, his eyes narrowed. “How did you get in here? Go back to Hightown, this isn’t a place for people like you.”

“For people like us? You mean mages?”

Calpernia resists the urge to hit Servis, cursing his impulsiveness in her thoughts. She quickly glances around to see if the other templars still pay no attention to them. Much to her surprise, there’s no one around, the place deserted. If anything, this only makes her more anxious.

“ _Mages_?” Samson’s hand is on the pommel of his sword. “You’re here to meet with the Grand Enchanter? What Circle are you from?”

Servis opens his lips, though Calpernia’s quicker, speaking before he can make the situation even more awkward.

“It doesn’t matter. This isn’t real. We’re here to get you out.”

Samson gives her a confused look. It’s odd, seeing him so different. Perhaps this is how he would continue to live if things that led him to the Elder One, and to red lyrium, didn’t happen.

_Are you happy?_ , she wants to asks, but she knows he’s not, because this is merely a shadow of his past. She thought she was happy in her own dream, but it was an illusion.

“Get him out?” the mage asks, his eyes looking straight at Calpernia, the intensity of his gaze is unnerving. “Get him out of where?”

“That’s enough, I’m talking you to Knight–Commander,” Samson moves towards them with a frown on his face.

“We need to leave!” Calpernia insists, readying a spell. If she has to knock him unconscious, then so be it.

“Why would you want to leave?” comes the mage’s question. This time his voice is hollow, lacking any emotions.

Samson stops and glances back at his companion, just like Calpernia and Servis sensing that something isn’t right.

A line appears on the man’s forehead, then blood starts pouring down his face as if an invisible knife was carving a shape on his skin. A choked gasp escapes from Samson’s lips as he stares in horror at what’s happening to his companion.

Blood pours down his face from a symbol of a sun carved on his forehead. Something changes in his eyes, his smile is disappears, all his will of life gone. He looks more like a dead man standing than a living person.

Servis clutches at Calpernia’s arm, holding her in place. His trembling slightly, observing the spectacle in front of them, his eyes wide.

Samson takes a step back as the mages falls down on his knees, his robe soaked in blood. Resisting the urge to run, Calpernia reaches out to Samson. _It’s not real!_ , she wants to tell him. Her heart nearly broke when the illusion of her dream ended and she saw a vile demon posing as Marius. _Don’t believe in what you see_ , she opens her mouth but the words don’t want to come.

Her fingertips brush the cold metal of his armour but then the whole world seems to dissolve and disappear, everything becomes blurry until Calpernia’s not sure if she lost her sight or did someone cover her eyes.

But then she can see again, feel the hard floor she’s lying on, and smell the smoke mixed with something foul. Fighting with a pounding in her head, she sits up to look around.

_I’m back_ , she thinks, recognising the attic. Servis groans as he slowly gets up on his feet. She looks to her right to see Samson lying on his side. For one dreadful moment he looks dead, but then he coughs, opens his eyes, and lets out a groan of pain.

Her legs shaking, Calpernia gets up. They’re back from the Fade, but their fight isn’t over yet.

There are flames all around them, and it looks like the whole room is on fire. The demon itself is burning, liquid flames dripping from its body. It looks like it’s formed out of lava. This is the thing Servis unleashed from that silly little box that now lays melted on the floor, rubies that once decorated it now smashed into dust.

Samson kneels down, unable to get up, exhaustion painted on his pale face. There’s a hint of fear in his eyes when he looks at the fiery creature in front of them. All the smoke in the room makes it hard to breath, and he bends in half seized by a terrible cough.

Calpernia covers her eyes with her hand. The heat is unbearable but it’s nothing compared to the overwhelming wave of _rage_ the creature emits.

_I almost had you_. Its voice echoes in her mind, making Calpernia shiver with disgust. _You shall be mine, body and soul._

The demon roars, the whole house trembles. Servis makes a sound, something like a cry of pain. Alarmed, Calpernia looks at him to check if he’s alright but to her surprise he seems completely unharmed.

He grabs a statue of Andraste that fell on the floor when the demon roared. The most holy Andraste is missing her pretty head, though it doesn’t seem to be a problem for Servis. Calpernia watches, completely stunned, as he throws the figure at the demon, shouting obscenities.

“My life’s work is in this room!” His shouts are somehow louder that the crackling fires. “You ruined _everything_ , you stupid piece of– “

The demon doesn’t let him finish, smashing the statue in mid–air with its hand, and letting out another shriek. Servis lets out a frustrated groan.

Calpernia’s body feels heavy and sore, yet she commands what’s left of her power to subdue the flames before the whole house burns down. The fire doesn’t want to obey her at first, but then her magic finally works and she makes the flames disappear. It’s too late, everything around them is already ruined; whatever treasures Servis stored in here no longer useful.

Theres no time to contemplate the destruction around them, however. Calpernia lifts up her arm, creating a barrier of fire in front of her. Her power is almost gone, and she falls down on her knees, moaning in pain.

“Freeze it!” Samson shouts. “Do something before it burns us alive!”

_A templar surely knows how to deal with demons_. _But what he can do without a sword?_ Calpernia doesn’t let her thoughts distract her, concentrating on the weakening barrier in front of them.

The demon grows impatient and finally attacks, launching itself at them with its claws ready to tear them into pieces.

But before it can get any closer, a blast of ice makes it howl and stop. Servis moves forward, casting another spell, forming a ball of blue light in his hands. The gust of cold air on Calpernia’s face is a blessing.

The spell hits the demon, and for a moment nothing happens. Then it starts to shrink down, shrieking as its whole body freezes in an instant, creating a horrific icy statue. Then it breaks into pieces, its body disappears in a puff of smoke, and the demon lets out one last growl. Seconds later it’s completely gone, leaving behind a dark circle on the floor where it once stood. A thin layer of frost covers every possible surface, though the damage is still clearly visible.

“Thank the Maker I have a knack for elemental spells…” Servis says, panting heavily.

Calpernia wants to tell him something, but she doesn’t have enough energy to speak.

“I leave the house for one moment, and come back to this…”

Calpernia, Samson and Servis turn their heads to the door where Posca stands, looking only slightly distraught.

“Everything’s under control!” Servis assures, forcing a smile on his face.

“Yes, I see. Cleaning this mess will take at least two days,” he lets out a sigh. “We’ll talk about it later, young master. Now I need you to go to the washroom and make yourself presentable. We’re expecting a guest. He’ll be here any minute now.”

“A guest? I didn’t invite anyone!”

Posca laughs, and when he looks at Servis there’s something like pity in his eyes. “No, you didn’t, young master, but the person who’s coming doesn’t need an invitation. He invited himself, just like I told you he would.”

In a heartbeat Servis gets considerably paler, staring wordlessly at the man.

“You’re telling me…” he blurts out after a beat.

“Yes, master Tristan is coming. He’s come to the city for the upcoming celebrations of Funalis. I’m sure he’ll tell you everything. Once he stops yelling at you for not contacting him sooner.”

Calpernia exchanges a look with Samson. He doesn’t seem so annoyed at her anymore, quite contrary – he seems as confused as she is, understanding exactly nothing of the conversation between Posca and Servis.

One thing is clear, they won’t have enough time to get some rest before the man Servis seems to fear so much comes to the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I had problems with this chapters, mainly because of some personal issues. Complete lack of motivation didn’t help.  
> My plan is to post about three more chapters by the end of this year, then put this story on hiatus so I can think everything through.  
> Feedback is, as always, much appreciated.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Servis confronts the man he seems to fear, Calpernia has a much needed talk with Samson, and then she makes plans for the future.

Servis disappears, instantly forgetting what has just happened, most likely to get ready to greet his guest. Though from the look on his face he made it clear that he wanted nothing else than to run away, as far from the man as possible.

Calpernia goes back to her room, he thoughts jumbled. She splashes her face with cold water, peels down her robe and scrubs her skin until she’s clean enough to dress in something else. The robe is ruined; she makes a mental note to herself to give Posca a substantial sum of coin to pay for it. He most likely won’t accept it, like any other servants refuse to let her do anything in this house, but she may at least try.

Calpernia picks another robe, brushes her hair and puts it in a long braid. A quick glance into the mirror tells her she looks presentable enough to go and see Servis’ unexpected guest. After their unpleasant adventures in the Fade and dealing with the demon, he may need her support.

There’s one more thing she needs to do, a conversation long overdue, but she has to focus on Servis first. She owes him this much, he lets her stay here no questions asked. Judging from the loud voices coming from downstairs he needs her help. Or she should at least let him know he has her full support (though she still has to chastise him for the careless handling of that demon box that caused them all so many problems).

She goes downstairs, getting closer to the source of all this noise. A man stands by Servis, gesturing wildly as he speaks. Calpernia watches him for a moment, uncertain why she’s surprised. Perhaps it’s because he doesn’t seem as intimidating as Servis described him, though he’s certainly loud, his shouts echoing between the walls. And he’s young, in his late twenties if she had to guess, whereas she expected someone considerably older.

_This has to be magister Tristan_ , she thinks, staying hidden for now as she wants to observe the situation.

He’s as tall as Servis, though more muscular. He has his curly black hair lose, dark oval eyes and a handsome face with high cheekbones. He’s dressed according to the latest fashion, in a black robe with purple belts with golden buckles, and leather sandals. What stands out the most is his jewellery, and he wears quite a lot of it. He has golden rings on his fingers, bracelets, a chain on his neck, and a ring in his left eyebrow. If he wasn’t dressed in a Tevinter robe, he would look more like one of those Rivaini pirates Calpernia saw on illustrations. She can’t quite explain it, but there’s just something about this man that doesn’t make him fit right into the role of a stereotypical Tevinter magister.

There’s a staff laying on the floor behind him; he must have tossed it carelessly there once he and Servis began their dispute. It’s a wooden staff, rather simple–looking, with a long blade attached to the end. Seeing it reminds Calpernia she’s yet to buy a new staff for herself. She’s been preoccupied with so many different matters lately that she completely forgot about it.

But that’s a trivial thing, since there’s something more important happening right in front of her eyes.

“And as I was walking here,” Tristan continues, glaring at Servis “I saw smoke coming from the attic, I nearly had a heart attack, but then I saw all your neighbours already gossiping on the street, staring at your house. Of course Seppia spotted me, that stupid hag, and asked, oh my dear Tristan,” he switches to a high–pitched, mocking tone “I haven’t seen you in ages in Vyrantium. Do tell, what is young Servis doing this time?”

Servis lets out something like a squeak. Tristan’s monologue doesn’t end here.

“What was I supposed to tell that old toad, huh, Crassius? I’m terribly sorry, Lady Sepia, you nosy wench, but our _dear_ Servis didn’t bother to notify me that he’s not only alive, but that he’s back in Vyrantium. So how the fuck would I know what he’s doing?!”

_Crassius?_ Calpernia wonders if she’s ever heard anyone calling Servis by his first name.

“Well, I was supposed to contact you,” Servis interrupts with a weak smile.

Tristan groans. “Oh, please! Don’t try to bullshit me like we’ve only met yesterday! It’s merely a coincidence I decided to come to Vyrantium for Funalis earlier, and that I saw Posca at the marketplace. If he didn’t tell me that you’re back, you’d stay hidden like some rat.”

“I was supposed to–” Servis tries again, but the other man’s scowl is enough to make him close his lips.

“You were supposed to be smart about the whole Venatori thing, weren’t you? And where did that lead you? To the Inquisiton’s dungeon!” Tristan shakes his head, angry blush colouring his face. “First I hear about the Venatori’s leaders getting murdered one by one, then that so–called Corypheus your Venatori buddies loved so much gets his head chopped off by the Inquisitor. And if that wasn’t enough, your father is sent to fucking Quarinus by the Archon himself! And we all know that only enemies of the state get this sort of treatment. And still no word from you!” He scoffs. “You were supposed to _contact_ me? Are you kidding me, Crassius?! Give me one good reason why should I even bother talking to you, instead of stabbing you right in your stupid face.”

“Excuse me,” Calpernia says, her voice loud enough so they can hear her as she walks up to them. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but is there a problem?”

Tristan turns to look at her. Anger vanishes from his face in an instant.

“Apologies,” he bows down his head. He doesn’t appear embarrassed in the slightest; Servis, on the other hand, looks like he wants to disappear from the face of Thedas. “Crassius failed to inform me that he has guests. Another thing he was _supposed_ to tell me, I believe.”

“I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced,” she says, lips curling into a smile. Tristan doesn’t seem to be as intimidating as he sounded while he was so preoccupied with shouting at Servis. If she gets to know him, maybe he’ll prove useful to her cause.

_Doubtful but worth a try_ , she thinks, extending her hand to him. She’ll ask Servis about Tristan’s political views later.

“My name’s Calpernia. Pleased to meet you.”

“What a delightfully old–fashioned name.” Tristan’s hand is large, fingernails painted black. “Do you come from a family of historians? Or maybe fans of Tevinter history? I admit, I’ve never met anyone named after the mother of the first Archon.”

“Why, yes,” she lies with ease, the smile never leaving her lips. “And I’m indeed very fond of the Imperium’s history, especially during the Archon Darinius’ reign.”

“Now I know what you and Crassius have in common. He’s always been mad about the old Tevinter, ruins, artefacts and all that.” He smiles as well. “Name’s Tristan, by the way. Tristan Varro . Excuse my lack of manners, Lady Calpernia. And I apologise again, this time for the spectacle. I was rather… shaken to discover that our mutual friend didn’t bother to notify me he’s alive and well, and back in his hometown.”

“There’s no need to apologise. Would you care for some wine? We can sit down and chat for a moment, if you want to stay, that is.”

“With pleasure,” Tristan replies with a bright smile.

Servis shoots Calpernia a panicked look but she decides to ignore it. She gestures at the table, and the three of them sit down. There’s already a bottle on the table, and a set of crystal glasses next to it.

_There’s always at least one bottle of wine in here_ , she muses and makes a note to herself to ask Posca if the family owns a winery. Or perhaps wine is so cheap in Vyrantium people prefer it to water.

Without hesitation, Tristan pours wine into three glasses.

“Shall the host make a toast?” he asks, giving Servis a curious glance.

“I think my guest already has an idea,” Servis forces a smile, looking rather miserable.

“To unexpected meetings, then!”

“How did you two meet?” Calpernia asks after taking a sip.

Servis is just about to say something but a meaningful look from Tristan makes him close his lips.

“His father sends him to the best Circle of Magi in the Imperium, expecting his son to get to know the right people. Imagine his surprise when Crassius comes back home for Satinalia, and doesn't bring any influential friends with him. He brings me, a son of a lesser magister and his Rivaini mistress.”

_Oh, this explains that certain something in his look…_ , Calpernia muses, hiding her surprise behind a polite smile. He’s not some brat from a well–bred family of magisters, then, but an outcast. Kind of like Servis. Very much like her, minus the title.

“You have been friends ever since?”

Servis makes a face as if something stabbed him. Tristan laughs.

“Yes, you could say so. Now I’m curious how did you meet my dear _friend_ Crassius. I’ve never seen you in Vyrantium.”

“We both have a penchant for history. We met in Orlais, you see, when we both wanted to explore the old Tevinter ruins in the Western Approach. I was terribly sad to discover that so much of our history is ruined, and forever lost to us.”

_Half–truths intertwined with lies make the lie more convincing_.

At the mention of that place, a grimace appears on Servis’ face. Thankfully he doesn’t offer any commentary, keeping his complaining to himself. In fact, he appears awfully quiet, not to mention embarrassed as indicated by a faint blush on his cheeks.

“That does sound like something you’d do,” Tristan glances at Servis. “Are you staying in Vyrantium for Funalis, Lady Calpernia? The celebrations here can equal those in Minrathous.”

“Servis was kind enough to ask me to stay. It’s my first time in the city, and I have to say that Vyrantium is truly a city of wonders.”

“I see young master convinced you that Vyrantium is the greatest city in the world, Lady Calpernia,” Posca says, walking up to them. He’s carrying a tray of food. “I apologise I couldn’t join you sooner. I’m awfully busy with calculating costs of repairs. I’m afraid we’ll have to renovate the attic, young master. Everything’s is more or less ruined. A lesson in taking proper safety measures, one could say.”

“I’m eagerly awaiting the explanation of what happened,” Tristan interrupts. “Is that another thing you were _supposed_ to tell me, Crassius?”

“There’s not much to talk about…” Servis mumbles, avoiding the man’s gaze.

“If you excuse me,” Calpernia says as she stands up. She gives Tristan a polite smile. “It was a pleasure to meet you, yet I need to attend to other matters. I’m sure you have much to talk about.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Lady Calpernia,” Tristan replies, raising his glass. “I hope Crassius won’t hide you from me anymore.”

The pout on Servis’ face is hilarious, Calpernia nearly bursts out laughing. She bows her head, then walks away, leaving the men to discuss whatever they need to talk about.

She also needs to talk, not with them, however. For a second she considers going to the kitchen to ask for another glass of wine (for courage, though she never thought she’d need it in a situation like this one). She dismisses the silly thought, and gets outside.

She finds Samson in his usual spot near the stables. He also changed into clean clothes, though he looks rather weary. Not a surprise, considering their latest misadventures.

The very thought of what she witnessed in the Fade makes her uneasy. The prospect of talking to the templar about it makes her even more nervous, but they _need_ to talk about it, finally talk about something instead of constantly avoiding it. Calpernia can only hope this confrontation won’t end like usually, with more shouting than the actual talking.

He’s sitting on a bench, polishing his sword. His tunic is unbuttoned, Calpernia catches a glimpse of a thin silver chain hanging from his neck. He’s barefoot, which doesn’t seem to bother him. Seeing her approach, Samson looks up, giving her an oddly emotionless glance. After a second of consideration, Calpernia chooses to sit on the bench, though not too close to him.

She shouldn’t feel as… conflicted (embarrassed?) as she currently feels. Calpernia stares at her hands; the fabric of the gloves she’s wearing is soft, the colour matching her robe.

“You know how many demons people deal with every year?” Samson speaks before she can gather her thoughts.

Calpernia stares at him, startled by the question. His voice is as emotionless as the expression on his face.

“The answer is zero. Normal people don’t have to deal with demons.” He stops polishing the sword and puts it back in a sheath. Then he turns his head to look at her. “Funny thing is, since I met you I had to deal with two demons. And get trapped in the Fade. You Vints sure like to complicate everything…”

Calpernia feels a hot blush on her face. This is so not how she wanted this conversation to go! Then again, is anything ever easy with this man?

She takes a breath. “A cautious mage would never allow a demon to do such things. Servis should apologise for his actions, but you know him. Besides, in the end it was him who defeated the demon.”

“The demon that he unleashed in the first place!” he snarls, his voice betraying his anger. “Are all Vints so careless?”

Calpernia frowns. “He made a mistake. If you want to chastise him for that, why are you glaring at _me_? Talk to Servis, show him your templar way of thinking!”

She bites her lower lip, realising she’s going too far. _I’m not here to quarrel with you_. Calpernia lets out a sigh. _Don’t make it more difficult than it already is…_

“My _templar way of thinking_ would never get us trapped in the Fade,” Samson adds, angrily staring at his feet to avoid Calpernia’s gaze. He tries to mask the hurt in his voice with anger, but it’s not so easy to deceive her, not any more at least, after everything they’ve  been through.

“Why did I have to see that place again?” he asks. “I thought I felt… happy for one pitiful moment, even though it was all a farce.”

She considers reaching out for his hand to assure him that she understands what he means, a small gesture saying more than words. Can she? Should she? Maker knows how he’d react if she dared to…

She ignores the thought, and speaks, looking up at the clear sky. She’s still not sure about certain things that happened, why being in the Fade didn’t affect her powers as much as Servis’ magic for example, yet she may tell him what she already knows. Hopefully her words offer some sort of consolation.

“It was an illusion created by our most deepest desires and wishes, created by the demon to trap us in the Fade forever and feed on our life force until our bodies withered and died, letting him devour our souls. At least that’s what I think. It’ s what demons want, a living host, as I’m sure you know.”

Samson doesn’t say anything, so she continues after a beat.

“It was all Servis’ fault, yes, but if he didn’t rescue me from my dream…” It takes all her strength to look Samson in the eyes. Her face is burning but she has to let him know she’s nothing but honest with him. “I was happy, just like you in your dream. I saw something that couldn’t be yet deep down I wished it was true.”

“One of the reasons people fear mages so much, at least in the south. You have the power to summon something like that, demons that can mess with our heads.”

She finds it impossibly hard to speak. “If you wish to leave, then…”

“Do you want me to go?” he asks, and his eyes betray him. There’s no trace of anger in them, just hurt and hints of sadness.

Under all these layers of snarky remarks and anger, there’s so much sorrow in him that he desperately tries to hide. How different is the man who sits by her side than that half–dead shadow that used to be the Elder One’s General.

_Perhaps we’re more alike than we think_ , Calpernia muses, gathering courage to speak.

“No,” she finally says, “but it has to be your decision. And whatever you decide, I will respect your choice.”

He considers her answer, eyes scanning her face. His gaze makes her uneasy, though she doesn’t say anything, letting him think.

“Why would I want to leave? I feel almost spoiled because I can do nothing all day, but drink fine Tevinter wine or train. For some dumb reason it feels good to have a sword in my hand again. No matter how much I complain about drinking that stupid potion, I can see it’s working. Not so long ago I could barely walk. Now I can win a duel with two highly trained Tevinter soldiers.”

He chuckles to himself.

“Are they ever coming back? Lucius and Berard. Your two Venatori bodyguards, I used to call them.”

“I sent them to Quarinus.” Calpernia finds it rather liberating how easy is to tell him the truth. Or at least part of it. “There’s someone there who wants to create a strong opposition against the Archon. She speaks about restoring and redeeming Tevinter, a goal similar to mine. Perhaps she could be convinced to join forces with me even though I don’t have much to offer when it comes to political power…”

Calpernia has to try because doing nothing equals defeat. There’s no way of contacting Lucius and Berard, no way of knowing if they are safe. Her heart gets heavier with every worry she hides deep within it.

“You’re good at convincing people. If that woman refuses then she’s a fool.” There’s something like a hint of a smile on Samson’s lips. “You convinced an old templar to fight for you in your Tevinter revolution. I mean, that says a lot about you, Calpernia. If you ever have doubts, try to remember that.”

Maybe it’s because of the weather, sun shining bright, not giving up, despite the fact that summer ended quite some time ago. Perhaps it’s the small glass of wine she had. Or maybe she’s still shaken after dealing with the demon, and everything that she saw in the Fade. Whatever it is that makes her weak or bold (or both), it doesn’t matter that much, but it prompts Calpernia to reach out for Samson’s hand and squeeze it gently.

“Thank you,” she says, surprised by the honesty in her own voice.

She barely registers that a back gate to the estate, but then a voice calls out her name, and Calpernia looks at the source of the voice, startled.

It’s Talia, her fiery red hair resembling a halo around her pretty face. Her eyes are open wide, full of worry. She runs straight to Calpernia, nearly dropping a bag she’s carrying.

“Is everything all right?” she asks, panic painted on her face. “What happened?”

Calpernia blinks, blushing furiously as she suddenly feels unable to speak. She quickly moves her hand away from Samson; she doesn’t want the girl to make the wrong assumptions, why is Talia so alarmed…

“We had a little adventure with demons.” It’s Samson who speaks instead. “It’s all Servis’ fault, so he’ll have to take care of this mess.”

He points up at the house, and when Calpernia follows his gaze she discovers the reason of Talia’s distress. Windows in the attic are broken, surely it’s one of many damages caused by their fight with the demon. Not to mention part of the wall and roof got blackened by the  smoke, before Calpernia could extinguish the flames.

_Oh_. Calpernia feels like a fool.

“Where are Ontario and Sorren?” she asks once she regains her voice.

“They wanted to see the rest of the city, but I decided to come back. And I’m glad I did…” she adds, glancing up at the broken windows. “Are you sure you’re alright, Lady Calpernia? You seem rather… distressed.”

Samson looks away, trying to hide his smile. Calpernia resists the urge the smack him in the head.

“Servis had an unexpected guest. Not to mention the whole thing with the demon he unleashed.” She stands up. “Come, let’s get inside. We should get something to eat. Did you see anything interesting at the marketplace? Vyrantium is a wonderful place, don’t you think?”

Realising she’s babbling, Calpernia closes her mouth shut. Talia gives Samson a confused look, he just shrugs, thankfully offering no comments. They get back inside the house, leaving the templar alone.

“Is Tristan gone?” Calpernia asks, looking around. The handsome magister is nowhere to be seen.

“Thankfully, yes,” Servis replies. He seems rather grumpy. Posca, on the other hand has a smile on his face.

“Master Tristan didn’t have that much time to stay here today. But I’m sure he’ll be back eventually.”

Servis lets out a groan.

“Now excuse me, I need to get back to cleaning the attic. I’ll ask around but I’m afraid we won’t be able to hire anyone this week to get it renovated since everyone’s busy with preparations for Funalis.”

“Do whatever needs to be done,” Servis says, sounding rather defeated. “Just make sure father doesn’t know about it. Hearing that I unleashed a demon in his own house would be the final straw…”

Posca bows down, then leaves. Calpernia sits down by the table, Talia joins them as well. She looks rather tense, and seeing this Servis offers her a glass of wine.

“Do you want to stay for Funalis or you want us to go to Minrathous?” Servis asks Calpernia before she can speak. Perhaps he wants to change the topic that doesn’t include a discussion of his mistakes. “We got Erimond’s estate in the capital, so technically you can settle there. Not that you’re not welcome here, of course!”

“We can’t all go to the city together. Minrathous is the Archon’s kingdom, he has countless Imperial guards everywhere. We would be discovered the second we set foot in the city. Fortunately, there are other ways to get to Minrathous.”

She isn’t exactly prepared for this conversation, yet she may explain her plans to him now since he asked. Any distraction from her racing heart is appreciated.

“You wish to go by sea? I think I know just the right person, but I’m afraid he’ll demand a large sum of gold.”

“We shouldn’t go by sea,” Talia interrupts. “It wasn’t good for your health, Lady Calpernia, last time we were on a ship.”

Calpernia shakes her head. “What I have in mind is easier. There’s only one way to get to Minrathous, via the Imperial Gate.”

Servis nods. “A good way of making sure the Imperial guards keep track of everyone who comes in and out. Besides, the Archon’s always been a little bit paranoid about the safety of his beloved city…”

“Exactly. But there’s another way. People generally know about catacombs under Minrathous. But what they don’t know is that there are passages built as a way of escaping if the capital gets attacked. Erasthenes had old maps showing every path that goes underground. This is our chance.”

Some slaves whispered about old passages going deep underground, and what possible monsters could live there. That was one of the common topics among slaves when the masters weren’t looking. Calpernia used to imagine what hides in the old catacombs, what treasures awaited those who dared to go there.

Once she saw her master’s maps, she realised that _something_ has to be there. On the other hand, it couldn’t be that interesting for anyone if even Erasthenes, who was obsessed with Tevinter history, didn’t bother to lead an expedition to search the tunnels beneath the city.

Servis thinks about it for a moment. “I guess it’s a good idea. If we know the way, that is. During my third year, we went to the tunnels beneath the Circle tower. Rumour had it the Grand Enchanter had his secret stash of liquor there. Long story short, we didn’t find wine but we sure saw some giant spiders. One nearly bit my leg off…” He shakes in disgust.

“So it’s dangerous,” Talia says, anxiously glancing at Calpernia. “That’s the only way to get to the capital?”

“If we don’t want to be seen, yes. Minrathous is heavily guarded, and there’s no other option if we want to get there without Radonis finding out about it. Don’t worry, it won’t be as difficult as it sounds.”

Calpernia gives her a reassuring smile, although from the look on Talia’s face it’s clear the Orlesian girl isn’t so sure about it.

“So how are we going to do it?” Servis prompts.

“You need to get me a map. A good one, that’s not so easy to access, I imagine. Radonis would rather make sure people don’t know where are the routes that could lead an enemy inside the city walls.”

“Yes, I don’t think a map detailing secret passages under Minrathous is available to an average citizen,” Servis nods. “Worst case scenario, I’ll get inside the Imperial library. They got to have every map in there.”

“Radonis has his own library here?” Calpernia raises her eyebrows.

“Oh, yes. Even Minrathous is not big enough to store all his treasures. The Imperial library is right next to the opera house. This reminds me, we should go there. I’ll get us tickets, if you fancy going.”

“We’ll talk about going to the opera some other time. Let’s make one thing clear, you want to _steal_ a map from the Archon’s personal library?”

“I want to help as much as I can,” Servis says with a proud smile. “Never forget I’m a man of many talents.”

Calpernia isn’t sure if she should congratulate him bravery or reprimand him for his happy-go-lucky attitude.

“You are very careless,” Talia glares at Servis.

Calpernia lets out a sigh. She wouldn’t have said it better.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People of Vyrantium prepare for the upcoming holiday.

The pounding in his head is unbearable.

Servis opens his eyes, lets out a groan almost immediately as the world seems too bright for his tired mind. _I’m never drinking again_ , he lies to himself, naively believing he’s going to keep his promise.

He can’t quite recognise the room around him, and for a second he feels utterly lost. He’s lying on a wide bed, under a thick soft cover. There’s a window on the opposite wall, now open and letting in cold morning air. Servis glances around, noticing a small rug (who threw all his clothes so carelessly on the floor?), and a chest of drawers. The bedroom is rather small, with the bed occupying most of the space.

Then he notices a sign painted on the wall, a unicorn with a red mane. It’s the sign that’s all over the docs and the marketplace, the one that prostitutes from this part of the city have tattooed on their bodies. Everyone knows it’s the sign of the brothel that stands in the very centre of the busiest marketplace of Vyrantium.

_Great. Just… great._ If his headache wasn’t tormenting him enough, he’d slap himself.

Hearing a yawn, Servis realises he’s not alone. Reality hits him in the head so hard he nearly passes out.

He turns his head to look at the person lying by his side, his heart racing because he can’t exactly remember the events of the last night. What he sees now reminds him too much of the vision in the Fade constructed by the demon Servis himself unleashed. It confuses him for a moment, to the point that he briefly wonders if he’s still dreaming. But then he feels the cold morning air on his skin, and magic in his veins not limited by any Fade tricks.

The man by his side is not some random person but Tristan. He appears to be sleeping, looking quite content. Servis takes a deep breath. He wishes it was merely another dream, but the pounding in his head makes it all real enough.

In the Fade he saw an almost exact same scene, he woke up by Tristan’s side but they were both in the Circle, and younger, the demon feeding off his memories. It quickly turned out to be fake, and Servis had to battle with a nightmarish creature before he could find a way out and search for Calpernia. Her own dream was also rather domestic; perhaps she dreamed of a peaceful life despite her proclamations of starting a revolution.

Their misadventures in the Fade left Servis with an unsettling feeling that maybe what he saw there was what he truly wanted. It sounds preposterous, yet deep down he knows it would be a nice change to have a peaceful, uneventful life.

He can’t take his eyes off Tristan sleeping by his side, feeling a blush on his face.

They were, well, kind of _together_ long time ago. His father didn’t approve, of course, but Servis didn’t care. That went to the void once he decided to join the Venatori. Their last meeting before Servis left could be best described as a shouting match.

And now they’re back to square one. Servis takes a deep breath to calm himself down. It doesn’t help at all, panic nearly choking him. First the demon, now this… How he can be so stupid?

At this moment dealing with a demon seems like a trivial thing, because demons can be vanquished and forgotten. Whereas Servis can’t quite forget about Tristan. The memories of last night slowly come back to him, and he feels himself blushing.

He needs to leave before things get more awkward. The blush on his face is so bright and hot like his whole body was on fire.

He slowly pushes the cover away, sits up and puts his feet on the cold floor. His escape plan is going well, now he just needs go grab his robe and–

“Where are you going so early?”

Servis swallows a cry of panic. _You just couldn’t stay asleep, could you?!_

His mind doesn’t work quite well in the morning, he’s always been a night owl ever since his Circle days, so instead of coming up with an excuse, he decides to tell the truth. Why would it matter anyway, Tristan Varro isn’t even remotely interested in Tevinter politics. Calpernia asked Servis if his _friend_ could be persuaded to join their cause (it’s entirely _her_ cause; he’s with her because… well, she seems to be the only person who still considers him to have some importance). Sadly for her, Tristan willingly removed himself from the schemes and games of the Imperial politicians years ago.

“I need to contact magister Aurelius Tulio. Should have done it last night but then, er, all of _this_ happened,” he lets out a sigh.

“You certainly didn’t complain last night,” Tristan laughs. “By Tulio you mean the same man who's open about his distrust for the Archon?”

“Yes, the very same.” Servis reaches for his robe tossed so carelessly on the floor. He wonders briefly if he should have it cleaned properly once he’s back home; Maker knows what’s been on the floor in this establishment…

Tristan scoffs. “Then I hope you're more patient that you used to be, because he's a busy man. If you contact him now, he may reply to you in about half a year.”

Servis forgets about his robe, staring at Trsitan in confusion. “Half a year? You're joking! What about his sister? They’re both in Vyrantium for Funalis.”

“Hestia? She doesn't care that much about politics, as any sane person should,” Tristan adds, giving Servis a meaningful look. “But she might help you in whatever you need. If you have something that she wants, that is.”

Servis scratches his nose. This is why Calpernia should take care of all this. She's far more eloquent than him. He's so hopeless when it comes to dealing with the _important people_... Her plans, however ambitious, are rather complicated. And Servis hates complications.

If it was about getting to another old temple, then Servis would be perfect for the job. But dealing with people? More politics? As much as he dislikes Tristan's constant remarks, Servis has to admit the man is right. Political problems aren't for him. He's but a simple archaeologist, sometimes a smuggler, that's all.

“What do you need Aurelius for? Politics, _again_? I thought spending time in the Inquisition's dungeon would teach you something, Crassius. I must say I'm terribly disappointed.”

Servis scoffs. Ignoring the remark, he finally puts on his robe. Tristan seems to be in a good mood; Servis should leave while it still lasts.

Yet he can’t help himself, and says, “Of all possible places where you could rent a room, this is the one you chose?”

Tristan shrugs. “This place isn’t as bad as everyone claims. I can stay here as long as I want, in return I check on the people working here. I’m a spirit healer, remember? A healer is always needed, especially in a place like this,” he flashes a grin. “Besides, the owner, Tatius, is a good man. He certainly knows how to earn coin.”

“He owns a _brothel_. How hard it can be to open the door and let the customers in?”

“You talk as if you had a lot of experience in the matter.”

Servis rolls his eyes. He reaches under the bed for his bag ( _Who in the void put it there?!_ His horrible hangover doesn’t help him with finding the answers). He’s finally ready to leave. Tristan, on the other hand, looks like he plans to stay in bed for the rest of the day.

“I guess you’re right, you should get back home,” Tristan speaks before Servis can decide what to say. “Posca may be worried. Give him my gratitude. He hasn’t changed one bit. And say hello to Calpernia as well. Is that truly her real name?”

Servis frowns. “Yes, it is. Do you think I invite lairs and deceivers to my own house?”

“I don’t know who did you meet among the Venatori.”

Tristan gives him a significant look, and Servis has to resist the urge to throw something at the man.

“See you… whenever,” he says, going to the door.

“I put a communicating crystal in your bag, I got the other one. Maybe you’ll actually use it this time.” He attempts to joke but his tone betrays him. There’s something in Tristan’s voice that makes Servis glance back. “I’m staying for Funalis, but I’ll probably go back to Minrathous next week. Unless…”

 “Give your family my greetings once you’re back in the capital,” Servis says, forcing himself to sound as disinterested as possible.

Tristan narrows his eyes, lips twisting as his brows knit. It’s not even close to what he wanted to hear, and all his hesitation is gone, disappointment painted on his handsome face. Servis pushes the door open and quickly leaves, before he hesitates or changes his mind.

This shouldn’t have happened in the first place, so it’s best to simply forget about it. He ignores some distant ache in his heart that he can feel despite the pounding in his head.

_I shouldn’t keep Calpernia waiting_ , he thinks when he gets outside.

The marketplace is already busy with people, though not as many as usually. Even this part of the city is getting ready for the upcoming celebrations, with stalls decorated with white pieces of cloth, and white ribbons hanging from lanterns.

Walking through the streets, Servis doesn’t pay much attention to the commotion around them. Yet he notices there are slaves everywhere, busy with decorating the city for the upcoming procession. Everything around him is so white one could think that snow fell in Vyrantium for the first time. There are statues of Andraste everywhere, small altars in front of shops, stone figures of the Maker’s bride in the front gardens of almost every house he passes.

Servis stops to watch two slaves carefully placing white roses around a stone Andraste, then he moves his eyes to look at the front door and see seven small dragon heads painted just above the door. _As much as people like to show their devotion to the Imperial Chantry, the cult of the Old Gods is still alive…_

He considers going to one of many old temples just to see how many offerings people left in the past week. Servis himself went to give Toth his thanks for helping him get back to the Imperium. Nobody talks about it, especially not now so close to Funalis, with Chantry priest almost on every corner reminding people about Andraste’s sacrifice.

He needs to get back home and give Calpernia the map she wants. Getting it wasn’t as difficult as he thought it would be, the Imperial library was mostly empty, save for an old librarian. Servis put a small bag of coins in his hands, the old man smiled, fished out a key from his pocket, and the gate to the Archon’s personal collection was open. After long hours of searching, Servis found a map of Minrathous depicting an intricate web of tunnels and passages. It was just what Calpernia needed, so he promptly left before the old librarian could ask him for more gold.

And then he found himself in a tavern. Then another one. And finally Tristan spotted him, but by that time Servis had enough to drink that he now barely remembers what happened next.

Servis shakes his head. _It’s no use thinking about it now…_

He lets out a sigh and begins walking again, ignoring a tall Chantry priest in a black robe preaching about the death of the Maker’s beloved.

 

* * *

 

His arms are aching, the sword gets heavier with every move, yet Samson doesn’t stop. Posca managed to find him a training dummy, Maker knows how, and since then Samson has been using it frequently.

When he is tired, nearly exhausted, after a long day of training, he can go to sleep without fearing he may hear that quiet little voice in his head reminding him that there’s a part of him that misses the sweet song of lyrium.

Lyrium (red or blue – it doesn’t matter) made him almost invulnerable. He needs to be sure it’s his own strength now, not some blighted poison that makes him strong.

The potion helps, at least it eases the pain as Calpernia once told him. Maybe it’s his new addiction, who knows, but the important thing is that Samson doesn’t think about lyrium anymore. Not as much as he used to, anyway.

There are days when he can pretend he forgot about it completely, days like this one when he can train till his completely exhausted. It’s good to have a sword in his hands. It’s good to have something to do. Perhaps one day he’ll have a purpose again.

Following Calpernia is a start.  Maybe eventually he’ll find something to be so passionate about as she is about her wish to see Tevinter reformed. Though he isn’t as visionary as she is…

Samson takes a breath, swings his sword and turns to avoid his imaginary opponent. Another breath, another move. He’s sweating in the afternoon sun, his muscles already ache faintly after training for so long, yet he doesn’t want to stop.

Training is an excellent distraction. Most importantly from lyrium. There are also other thoughts in his head, highly distracting at times, and he can’t quite explain them.

When she talked to him Calpernia sounded sincere, like that time when they spoke in the Temple of Dumat. Her usual confidence was gone, leaving her more exposed than she probably realised. Does that mean that he’s earned at least part of her trust? He recalls her reaching out for his hand, a silly little gesture that probably didn’t mean that much, and he’s overthinking the whole thing again.

He isn’t sure if he should be worried that he finds himself caring…

Deep in his thoughts, Samson barely registers there’s someone standing close, watching him. It’s not the stable boy this time, like the rest of Servis’ servants the kid is busy with decorating the house for tomorrow’s holiday. It’s Sorren, one of the two Orlesian elves who joined Calpernia back in Val Royeaux.

He stands a few feet away, observing Samson’s training. When the former templar stops to catch his breath, he walks closer. _He wants something_ , Samson thinks, seeing the look on the elf’s face. He doesn’t know him that well, and they’re not exactly friends. They played cards, talked about meaningless things, so they could pass the time while they were travelling to the Imperium.

 “You’re not taking part in the celebrations?” Sorren asks, his common marked by an Orlesian accent. “The whole city is already decorated for Funalis. Posca said he will take us to see the procession.”

 “I don’t care much about the Chantry reminding us that Andraste burned so we could be saved.” Samson shrugs.

“Apparently people here also worship the Dragon Gods. Funalis is dedicated to Dumat.”

_This name again…_ , Samson muses. A bitter smile appears on his lips as he remembers that the very reason why he was saved from certain death was because Calpernia needed him to go to the temple of that god.

Not only that, but also the Elder One claimed to be Dumat’s servant once. Everywhere Samson goes, the Old God of Silence seems to follow. Or maybe it’s merely a coincidence, but at times it makes him wonder.

“It’ll be interesting to see the old and the new, don’t you think?” Sorren’s question wakes up Samson from his thoughts.

“I don’t know,” he says, not even remotely interested in the conversation. “If you want to talk about Tevinter gods, you should ask Calpernia, not me.”

“Speaking of her, Talia wants to get her something. What would Lady Calpernia like?”

Samson stares at the elf, wondering what prompted this sort of question.

“How would I know?” he frowns. It makes him irrationally angry for some reason. “Why are you asking me?”

Sorren gives him a look, as if greatly surprised. “You should know,” he says after a beat like that explained it all.

_Should I?_ Samson wants to ask. Instead he lets out a sigh. It was easier when they no one was talking to him.

“Get her something to read. Did you see how many books she had with her when we were travelling?”

“Yes, she seems to like reading,” Sorren smiles. “A book, then?”

“Or tea. She’s not into wine, but it looks like she prefers tea.”

“I think you know her quite well.”

Samson doesn’t like the glimmer of amusement in the elf’s eyes.

“Did you come here to ask me about Calpernia? Is the questioning over?”

“Actually,” Sorren glances at the sword in Samson’s hand. “I’m here to ask for a favour.”

“If you want _me_ to go buy a gift for her…”

“Oh, no, don’t worry. It’s Talia’s idea, she’s the one who wants to shower Lady Calpernia with gifts. She certainly deserves it, after all she’s done for us, but I’d rather contribute to her cause in some other way.” The elf looks at Samson again, his expression a bit nervous. “I want to ask you, if you were so kind as to teach me how to fight.”

Samson stares at him for a longer while. “You want me to teach you..?” he repeats, dumbfounded.

Sorren eagerly nods. “Yes, if you want to. I could really use your help. I can’t ask anyone else. I mean, with both Lucius and Berard gone, you’re the only skilled warrior here.”

Samson nearly bursts out laughing. “You gotta be kidding me!”

“You think I’m joking? Why would I make fun of you?” The elf looks genuinely confused.

“You’re serious, then?” Samson isn’t sure if he’s happy or irritated. “Why do you even want to train with a sword? Aren’t you the one Calpernia sends to deliver her letters? I thought you know how to fight.”

“I’m good at delivering messages, but I wouldn’t call myself a good fighter,” he admits with a hint of worry in his voice. “We are soon to travel to Minrathous. What use will I have for Lady Calpernia there? She doesn’t need an useless elf by her side. She needs someone who can fight for her and her cause if needed. That’s why I’m asking you.”

Samson wants to make a joke, yet it would be simply mean to mock and ridicule this request.

_You seem like a nice guy_ , he muses, remembering the days when they both played cards together. At first it didn’t matter to him to learn anyone’s names. Calpernia was accompanied by _some people_ that joined her for one reason or another. Samson refused to be part of the group, because back then he didn’t want to be part of anything.

Things changed since then. And he changed as well.

“Alright,” he finally says. “If you want to know how to use a sword, then I may as well teach you. But just to be clear, it’s gonna take a while before you can actually fight well.”

Sorren’s face lights up with a smile. “Thank you, Samson. You are very kind.”

_I’m not_. Samson wants to deny. He’s been called many things, but _kind_ wasn’t something he heard often. Because he was far from being kind.

Instead he decides to begin their first lesson. This, too, can be a good distraction.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The procession for Funalis begins, people gathering to remember Andraste’s sacrifice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: there’s very little information about Funalis in the ‘official’ sources, so most of what you can read about in this chapter is my own headcanon.

A warm breeze is blowing gently through the open door, bringing in the sounds of wooden swords clashing and pieces of a conversation. Calpernia listens for a moment, but the meaning is lost to her.

“Do you like it?”

Calpernia shakes her head. She accepts a small mirror from Talia, and looks at her reflection, turning her head to the side.

Her hair is swept into a braid pinned to her head. Talia doesn’t care that much about her own appearance but she seems to like doing Calpernia’s hair. Thankfully no makeup is necessary today.

“Thank you, this is lovely.”

The girl blushes and smiles. Calpernia puts the mirror away, eyes moving to Servis who also stands in the middle of the main room, trying out his new attire.

The robe she’s wearing is new, yet another gift she accepted with a pang o guilt that she’s never going to repay Servis’ generosity. Her robe is white, without ornamentation as tradition commands – or so she was told. Calpernia knows very little about Funalis, and that’s why she’s eager to see how the city celebrates it.

“Strange to see people not wearing masks,” Ontario says, observing their preparations. “People in Orlais spend as much time deciding what clothes to wear as choosing the right mask. Especially for holidays like Funalis. Whole Val Royeaux is decorated with white roses, and guess who gets to clean all that once the processions are over?” he scoffs. “How big is the procession in Minrathous?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen it,” she admits with honesty.

“Oh,” Ontario blushes slightly, then gives her a smile. “Then let’s make sure to leave early so we can see everything.”

“I don’t want to miss it,” Calpernia nods.

Erasthenes didn’t care about holidays. Besides, as a slave she wasn’t permitted to go out and take part in the celebrations. He rarely spoke about matters other than his research, his precious old tomes, maps and relics. Only once she heard him complaining to magister Anodatus. She served them tea in small porcelain teacups. Anodatus didn’t care about it, reaching for a cup of wine instead, while Erasthenes was talking how the Imperial Chantry forces people to glorify Andraste and the Maker.

“Temples of the Old Gods are in a state of ruin!” She remembers him saying. It was the only time she heard some actual emotion in her master’s voice.

Anodatus caught her staring and pushed his teacup so it landed on the floor breaking into pieces. That man was the definition of petty.

“Clean this up,” he commanded like he was the one who owned her. Erasthenes merely waved his hand. Calpernia obliged, her fingers bleeding as sharp pieces of porcelain cut her skin.

Now that she thinks about it, Erasthenes was partially right. Why forget about the old, the very foundation this country was built on? She doesn’t want to be that person who ruins the mood with a grim story, so she keeps her mouth shut, listening to Servis going on and on about Vyrantium’s old traditions.

“First, there’s the procession going to the Chantry. At night there’s this big fire in front of it, every year the Grand Enchanter casts a spell so the flames reach high up to the sky. Who’s the Grand Enchanter now?”

“It’s still Cornelius Batiatus, young master,” Posca replies.

Servis scoffs. “That old man must be at least eighty years old by now! How come no one stabbed him to death yet?”

“Perhaps he’s more popular than you realise, young master. People still remember his victory over the Qunari that attacked the city.”

“It was thirty years ago! The man can barely walk now!”

“Qunari attacked Vyrantium?” asks Ontario in disbelief.

“Many times,” Calpernia replies. “But that was the last instance after the Llomerryn Accord was signed when they dared to openly attack one of Tevinter cities.”

Erasthenes studied ancient records but he also had surprisingly many books about the modern history of the Imperium. Calpernia read everything she could find in his library.

“I’m afraid we need to postpone this discussion,” Posca interrupts. “The procession starts in an hour. You don’t want to be late.”

He hands Calpernia a tall candle and a small bouquet of white roses. She hopes she will know what to do with them. Supposedly people throw the roses in the fire to see them burn like Andraste once burned. She thanks the old servant with a smile.

Posca leans in to whisper, “Master Servis doesn’t care that much about traditions, but let me tell you, Lady Calpernia, if there’s something on your heart, don’t hesitate to pray. To Andraste, the Maker, or the Old Gods. There’s always someone listening.”

Calpernia looks at the flowers in her hands. She nods and chews her lips pondering on the servant’s words.

_What I need tonight is a way to speak to Aurelius Tulio, or his sister at least_. She doubts if any deity cares about such trivial request. The magister is her possible ally in creating the opposition to the Archon. Ideally, she would like to speak to him tonight, though from what Servis claims it won’t be easy.

That’s one of the things she considers praying for. Lucius and Berard most likely reached Quarinus by now. Hopefully they’ll return with good news.

Servis got her a map of the catacombs under Minrathous. They may travel to the capital, and get inside the city unnoticed. Calpernia can finally stop wishing and start acting instead.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?” she asks Talia.

“I don’t think it’s my place to– ” the girl stops mid–sentence, blushing. “I don’t like the crowds.”

Calpernia nods. The streets will be more crowded than usually, full of masters and their slaves. Calpernia doesn’t press Talia but there’s something in her tone of voice that says the very thought of going scares her. What did her former master do to her? The girl is brave, yet the past is not so easily forgotten, Calpernia knows it all too well.

“I’ll make sure you’re not bored,” Posca adds with a kind smile. “After sunset we will make a bonfire in the garden. Perhaps people in Orlais do something similar? Hopefully this prevents any other fires inside the house. This reminds me, I found workers who are willing to renovate the attic. They demanded a horrendously high payment, however…”

“At least you have something to complain about,” Servis mumbles, more to himself than to the old servant. “Let’s go,” he adds in a louder voice, glancing at Calpernia and Ontario. “We don’t want to be late.”

Before they leave Calpernia looks at the door leading to the garden. The sounds of wooden swords clashing can’t be heard anymore, so Samson and Sorren must have finished their training for today. Perhaps she should ask them if they’d like to join. Calpernia shakes her head and follows her companions through the door.; they didn’t seem to care about the holiday, and it’s too late now anyway.

Just like Servis said, it looks like the whole city gathered on the streets to observe the procession. The only difference is that this time everyone’s on foot, there are no horses nor palanquins in the crowd. People are dressed in white robes, the rich also wear small pieces of jewellery but mostly the clothes are simple.

Ontario notices that, too, and says to Calpernia, “In Val Royeaux they don’t care about simplicity, even for the All Soul’s Day. The Chantry teaches one should be modest but the Orlesian nobles just don’t care.”

It takes a while to get to the part of the city when the procession is supposed to start, next to a small Chantry building with a statue of Andraste in front of it. The Imperial guards in golden armours try to push people back so the priests can walk freely. The crowd grows so thick Calpernia can barely move, various scents of perfume make her sick, and some lady standing behind her complains loudly about the fact that the likes of her have to stand next to the lesser people.

“How are we going to spot Aurelius Tulio?” Calpernia turns to Servis. He seems equally uncomfortable as she feels.

He tries to stand on his toes, eyes scanning the mass of people. Some old man tries to get closer to the temple, and orders his slave to push people away so he can move. Someone starts swearing loudly, somewhere else a child begins to wail. Calpernia feels like she’s about to get squeezed, and tries to calm down by taking a deep breath. She clutches the bouquet of roses to her chest, hoping it doesn’t get ruined.

She takes another breath but the strong smells of perfume, sweat and flowers is too much. Just when she’s about to fall, Ontario catches her and helps her stand up.

“Let’s take a break. It’s no use looking for the magister among all those people,” he says, giving Calpernia a reassuring smile. He guides her away from the crowd, and she can finally breath freely again.

“He’s not here anyway,” Servis appears by her side. He has a bitter smile on his lips. “He should be standing with other magisters of note right next to the priests but he’s not. I did see his sister, though. We can try talking to her first.”

“How did you manage to see anything in this crowd?” the elf asks, puzzled.

“After living both in Vyrantium _and_ Minrathous, I’m used to crowds. And this isn’t even that bad, just wait till you see what happens during the Satinalia week. The whole city goes _wild_.”

“We won’t get through, anyway,” Calpernia says. She now perfectly understands Talia’s dislike of crowds. If it wasn’t for Ontario, she would surely got trampled.

“The procession ends in the Chantry on the other side of the city. We can get there faster, and wait for Tulio. I know the way.”

Servis guides them through an alley, eerily empty compared to the loud mass of people they left behind. Seeing how deserted the streets are, it seems that truly everyone gathered to see the procession.

“Crassius Servis?”

Calpernia, Servis and Ontario turn around, startled.

Three men walk to them, the one in the middle looking at Servis with his eyes narrowed. They’re wearing armours, similar to the ones the Imperial guards have, not gold but silver, and no helmets. They all carry a sword by their side.

Calpernia exchanges a quick glance with Ontario. These three men certainly aren’t ordinary thugs but they don’t have friendly intentions either.

“Yes?” Servis gives the man a confused look. “And who are you?”

“Why is your slave not wearing a plate?” he asks, ignoring the question. His eyes move to Ontario. “Or a collar at least?”

The elf frowns, anger colouring his face with a light blush. “I’m not his slave!”

“Good,” the man replies. “It means we won’t need to compensate your value in gold.”

Calpernia feels the familiar tingling in her fingertips, as the magic inside her wakes up, urging her to be careful. But before she can do something, before she can even move, she can only register that the man has a dagger in his hand. Then the blade cuts through the air, even though her eyes didn’t see him throw it, and hits Ontario right in the middle of his chest.

The elf stumbles backwards, lets out a half–swallowed cry, and falls on his back, a red stain growing on his chest.

Calpernia’s mind is empty. What she sees cannot be true.

Servis grabs her arm, tries to pull her away, urging her to run. She can barely comprehend what he’s saying, his words muffled as if he was standing behind a barrier. Calpernia wants to take a deep breath but something is squeezing her throat. Cold blue light explodes in front of her eyes, and the air in her lungs seems to freeze.

She knows this feeling, the cold numbness that sucks away her magic, and for a second she’s completely paralysed, staring at the dead elf lying in a pool of his own blood.

Imperial Templars? But how do they know how to block one’s magic? Templars here are nothing but puppets commanded by mages. They’re nothing like the southern templars…

She hears Servis moaning in pain, then saying something to the men before one of them grabs him and pulls his away from her. A tiny voice somewhere at the back of her mind tells her to move but she can’t, her eyes fixed on Ontario, even when she feels a pair of strong hands on her.

A bell rings somewhere in the distance. The great procession begins, Chantry sisters and brothers leading people through the streets of Vyrantium, carrying a statue of Andraste to remember her sacrifice.

It all seems to happen somewhere else, in a completely different reality because what Calpernia sees is so surreal she can’t believe her own eyes.

Ontario doesn’t move; he will never move again, his face captured in a moment of shock, lips slightly opened and glassy eyes wide. His chest is covered in a rapidly growing red stain looking like a flower blooming, staining his white robe.

The man who attacked walks to the elf and unceremoniously grabs his knife. He wipes the blade in a piece of cloth that he then throws on the ground. Only then, as if awakened from slumber, Calpernia begins to fight with the man holding her. She tries to kick him but all her powers are completely drained.

The leader, the one who killed without any hesitation, moves closer to her and regards her for a moment. _I will see you burn!_ , Calpernia thinks but even her mind is as numb as her body. Her magic locked away, no flames appear in her hands when she desperately calls out for them.

He has an oddly emotionless look on his face as if he didn’t care at all that he just ended someone’s life. Perhaps he doesn’t, just like he doesn’t care that he hits her with so much force she would have fallen on the ground if someone wasn’t holding her. Calpernia feels blood on her tongue and coughs, blood staining her white robe. It matters little because another blow comes, the pain exploding in her head before her conscience is lost.

 

* * *

 

Servis is unable to tell how much time has passed when he wakes up. He glances around, fighting with a headache. He’s still in the same place as before, in an alley so close to the temple when the procession started. There’s no sight of Calpernia. Ontario’s body is gone as well, only a red puddle of blood telling what has happened here.

“You need to understand that we’re here to send you a warning.”

Someone holds him as another person forces him to drink from a small flask. Servis jerks his head, the liquid burns his throat. A pair of strong hands grips his head nearly crushing his skull, then a bundle of rags is pushed into his mouth.

Seconds later he’s shivering, unable to think straight. Magebane. Or something equally horrible. As if that spell or whatever power they used wasn’t enough.

There are hands on his shoulders pushing him down, Servis falls on his knees. He blinks rapidly, trying to see the faces of the three men but everything’s blurred.

“Still working for the Venatori,” the one standing in front of him says. Servis can’t look up, blinded by pain, so he looks at the man’s shoes, black leather sandals with silver buckles, the kind of shoes that must have cost a lot. “Ignoring the Archon’s orders that clearly state that the Venatori are the enemies of Tevinter.”

_How do you know_ , he thinks in panic. _There’s no Venatori anymore, only her…_

“And now you dare to steal from the Archon?”

Servis jerks his head up and regrets it instantly as the pain nearly blinds him. The man stares down at him, his eyes devoid of emotion.

_It’s just an old map!_ , Servis wants to say. It’s impossible that he knows about it, that he assumes Servis is still working for the Venatori.

“You know what’s the punishment for stealing, boy? Tevinter law is very clear about it.”

His mind can barely comprehend what’s happening when he’s pushed and then pressed to the ground. The man grabs his right arm and rolls up the sleeve of his white robe. Servis tries to move but he’s immobilised both by the potion and the person holding him down.

Only when the man grabs his dagger, the one he used to murder the elf, Servis fully understands the meaning of his words. Blind panic floods his mind and he begins to tremble, too weak to do anything else.

He pleads, his words muffled. Tears gather in his eyes and he watches the man raise the dagger with one hand, the other gripping Servis’s wrist so he can’t move his arm away.

The blade cuts just below his elbow. Servis screams and nearly chokes on the bundle of rags in his mouth. Tears stream down his face as he watches in utter horror as the blade strikes again because the first blow wasn’t enough to hack off his hand. Pain explodes in his arm, and he wants nothing but to get up and run, his mind in a haze of some primal fear that reduces him to feeling like a small animal caught in a trap. People holding him overpower him with ease, pinning him to the dirty ground floor.

The blade is gone but the pain isn’t, hot like flame and paralysing his whole body. His right hand is lying on the ground, and in some irrational, desperate attempt Servis tries to move his fingers. He can _feel_ them moving as if nothing happened but deep down he knows it’s merely a fake sensation created by his tortured mind.

He cries out when the man with the blade picks up the severed limb and throws it away as if it was nothing but a piece of useless meat. Everything blurs together in a haze of pain, the iron grip of his attackers is gone but it doesn’t matter as he doesn’t feel anything anymore, his consciousness lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N2: Next chapter tomorrow, because I want to be done with this before the year ends.   
> It’ll be the last chapter before this story goes on hiatus.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Calpernia is forced to deal with the consequences of her actions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Pulvis et umbra sumus – We are but dust and shadow.

_Tap_.

Her eyes eventually find their focus, and through the haze of fatigue Calpernia can see she's laying on the cold floor.

_Tap_. Another sound echoing between the walls and in her mind as well, something hitting the stone floor.

She looks up, trying to determine where she is. The place is dark, there’s a stone altar and a large monument of a dragon behind it. It all looks crude and old, created ages ago when people didn't know about the Maker and Andraste. Slight tingling in her fingertips tells her the chamber is sealed with magic that preserves the old temple from ruin.

There are candles arranged around the altar; and flowers, bracelets, trinkets and rings, and everything else one could give as payment for their prayers. Among all these things there are also worn out leather collars and metal chains, creating an intricate mosaic of things people bring here as an offering for the Old God. People in Tevinter still remember about their dragon gods, leaving them gifts when the Maker is deaf to their prayers.

There are words carved on the altar, and Calpernia squints trying to read them.

_PULVIS ET UMBRA SUMUS_

She lifts up her head to get a better look at the stone dragon, its open maw and outstretched wings looming ominously above the altar.

Andoral. Dragon of Slaves.

_Tap_.

Startled by the sound, Calpernia turns to see there’s a man standing behind her.

He taps the end of his staff on the stone floor. _Tap tap tap_. He’s wearing a white robe with long sleeves, a wide leather belt, and a pair of golden gloves that glisten in the candlelight as if they were made of metal. There’s a brooch pinned to his chest, the Archon’s sigil, a symbol of power. As the Archon’s agent this man is essentially invulnerable for he represents the most important person in the Imperium.

There’s something familiar in him, especially in his cold eyes gazing at her full of unforgiving hate. He smiles, amused by her confusion, and finally she remembers.

Magister Anodatus, once a frequent guest in her master’s estate. The man who attacked her when she walked the streets of Minrathous as a free woman for the first time.

She remembers the smell of burning flesh when her spells hit him, how he wailed in pain, raising up charred remains of his hands.

“Calpernia.”

Hearing his voice again speaking to her with so much revulsion sends shivers down his spine, making her ashamed of her own name.

He changed significantly since she last saw him, defeated and broken, curled on the ground in front of the statue of the Ferryman. It seems like it happened ages ago, in another life, perhaps. The man’s face got thinner, his hair is cut short, but he now grows a pointy beard, dyed black to hide his age.

There are wrinkles around his narrow eyes. His pale skin looks frail like an old parchment. The way he glares at her, however, tells her there’s strength in him fuelled by hate.

“You have no idea how _happy_ I am to see you again.”

He raises up his hand and balls it into fist, and Calpernia gazes at it in shock realising he’s not wearing gloves. His hands are gone, replaced by a pair of artificial limbs, so masterfully crafted one could think he painted his real hands with gold.

After she burned his hands off the damage was too great, but Anodatus is a man of wealth and influence, even more now than before, so he could afford replacements. Artificial limbs are nothing new but his hands look more like a work of art, and they surely must have cost a fortune.

Calpernia closes her eyes for a second, fighting  with the overwhelming feeling of numbness. She calls out for her magic again, but nothing happens leaving her in a state of despair.

Then Anodatus  is by her side. With a small gesture of his hand some invisible force pulls her up as if she were a mere puppet in his hands. She hovers in the air, her feet millimetres above the ground. Blind fear grips her heart, she tries to break free yet the spell is too powerful.

“I must say I observed your pitiful attempts with amusement,” he says watching her struggles with complete disinterest. “It was clever of this Corypheus to keep your existence a secret. Too bad all his plans failed when the Inquisition finally killed him. That took them long enough...” he lets out a sigh. “Southerners always take so long to do the easiest tasks.”

He walks to the altar, picks up a golden ring and inspects it before putting it back. He seems rather bored. While Calpernia gasps for air struggling against the spell he glances at other things people left for the Old God. Her vision goes hazy, everything is blurred, the magister looks like he has a golden halo around him.

“But enough is enough. You and your little group have become troublesome lately. Trying to contact the Lucerni? The letter you wrote to  Maevaris Tiliani was laughably amusing. Do you really think she’d care about your little _revolution_?”

He reaches to his pocket and shows her a crumbled piece of parchment. The letter she wrote, the one she asked Lucius and Berard to deliver to Quarinus.

A gasp escapes from her lips when the letter catches in flames that appear out of nowhere in Anodatus’ golden hand. Seconds later the paper is reduced to ashes.

If he got the letter, then what happened to the men who carried it..?

As if reading her thoughts, the magister continues. “Tevinter law is very clear what to do with slaves who dare to raise a hand on their master. Slaves who allow others to hurt their master are equally guilty.”

_You’re lying_ , she wants to shout in his face but something makes it hard for her to speak.

“I was told they didn’t want to admit they’re working for you even after some, well, _persuasion_. You trained them well, I must admit. They were loyal till the end.”

Calpernia swallows a cry, feeling guilt so strong tears gather in her eyes. Her lips tremble so she bites her lower lip hard enough to feel blood on her tongue.

“You make friends everywhere you go! Imagine my surprise when I learned you and the magekiller hired to kill you used to serve good old Erasthenes. The world is a small place sometimes, don't you think, girl? What did you offer him to spare you, I wonder? There’s nothing admirable about you.”

Standing this close, Calpernia sees every wrinkle on his face. The smell of perfume and fresh robes can't quite mask the scent of sweat and something else, strong magic perhaps, that reminds her of iron and blood.

“I can hardly understand what Corypheus saw in you...” he holds her chin up, ignoring her strained groans of pain. His golden hands are cold. “Well, you have _some_ power in you…”

His eyes regard her for a longer moment. His lips twist with disgust. “Yes, there is magic in you. Like a pearl in a pile of shit.”

He takes a step back as the very thought of touching her again disgusted him. He ostentatiously wipes his hand on his robe.

“But you don’t have your magic now, do you? How does it feel, I wonder? Care to enlighten me?”

He moves his eyes to look at her, awaiting her answer. Calpernia responds with a glare, refusing to say a word.

“ _Speak!_ ”

The end of his staff hits her in the stomach. She would bend in half in pain if it wasn’t for the spell holding her in place. Calpernia grits her teeth. When she looks at the man, her whole body is shaking.

“I should have killed you that day!” she spits in his face, her voice echoing in the temple. “I should have burned you, watch your pitiful form turn to ashes! But I let you live so you could remember that you were defeated by a mere slave– ”

She stops suddenly and gasps for air when something starts squeezing her throat. Unable to breath, she nearly passes out. Anodatus glares at her, his golden hand raised and trembling ever so slightly as he concentrates on the spell.

Then the force holding her prisoner is gone, and Calpernia lands on the floor gasping for air.

“We all made mistakes,” Anodatus says. He makes his voice sound disinterested, yet she may hear hints of anger in his tone. “Erasthenes should have sold you, so at least your blood could be of some use. That old fool thought an _incaensor_ would make a good apprentice.”

Calpernia massages her throat. It was foolish to lash out like that. Her anger changes to guilt and remorse, even though she refuses to believe that what he said is true.

But it’s no lie, how else could he find her here. She thought she could move freely, refusing to see that no matter what she does, there’s still a collar and a leash on her neck. She remembers blood dripping from Ontario's lifeless body, someone pulling Servis away before knocking her down, and all her will to speak disappears.

“Alas, I’m here to give you a warning.” The magister’s lips curl into a hideous smile. “Corypheus is dead, the Venatori are no more. If you continue your foolish quest, you will die. Go back to hunting slavers in Orlais, if you wish.”

_I know_ , his eyes tell her. _I know about everything._

Calpernia’s lip trembles but she refuses to cry. The magister gives her one more look full of contempt, his golden hands glistening in the candlelight. A spell hits her, making Calpernia surrender completely.

“You will remember it is I who offers mercy,” she hears him say before the spell puts her to sleep.

When she opens her eyes the magister is already gone, the temple empty and cold. Calpernia sits up, letting out a groan of pain.

Her magic is quiet and distant, her whole body shaking. She slowly gets up, her legs refusing to cooperate. Her head spins as she takes a step, and nearly falls on the ground. All this physical pain is nothing compared to the overwhelming guilt.

She fights but loses and she falls to her knees, a sob escaping from her lips. Tears streaming down her face, she weeps silently just like that small slave girl she used to be once, forced to sleep in the stables because other servants hated her, and the world didn't care. She hasn’t changed much, and the thought makes her punch the ground with fists, lips opening to scream, then sob, then moan in pain as her exhausted body begs her for rest.

She stands up, her robes torn, hands bruised. It takes a while for her breath to calm down. Calpernia hastily wipes her eyes, smearing blood and dirt on her face. She shivers as the last spark of her will disappears, and she sobs uncontrollably, the ache in her chest so strong that she's afraid all hope is gone forever.

Behind her candles burn on the stone altar, the monument of the Dragon God observing her struggles, silent to her prayers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N2: The line “there is magic in you. Like a pearl in a pile of shit” is a paraphrase of what Auberon says to Ciri in The Lady of the Lake. I read The Witcher novels ages ago, but for some reason Ciri’s time as the elven “bride” is what I remember vividly. Maybe because it was just so creepy.  
> This story will be on hiatus because I need to think some things through. I hope it won’t take long to post the next chapter, I don’t want to keep anyone waiting. If someone is waiting for an update, that is.  
> Feedback is, as always, very much appreciated.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tristan finds out what happened to Servis.

He kneels down on the floor, and looks up at a woman sitting on his bed. Elya, she’s called, or so she claims. Tristan isn’t here to ask about her life.

She unceremoniously unties her dress and glances at him, her dark eyes full of worry and… Shame, perhaps, but not because she’s ashamed of her body displayed like this.

There are bruises on her stomach, and thin shallow cuts. Tristan lets out a sigh. Being a healer, he’s used to seeing all kinds of injuries, yet this…

This simply isn’t right.

When Tristan presses his hands to her skin Elya winces, tears glistening in her eyes. He pretends he doesn’t notice

She’s pretty. He wouldn’t call her beautiful, after working here for so many years all the beauty she once had disappeared, but she is still pretty enough to make customers want her. She has an attractive figure, long, black hair and big dark eyes with long eyelashes. It’s impossible to guess her age, though from the small, barely visible wrinkles around her eyes, Tristan would say she’s about thirty. If she’s still working here, then it means she’s _good_.

She’s not wearing any makeup now, but he’s seen her during busy nights when the place is packed with patrons willing to pay gold to see her smile and wrap her arms around them.

The bruises on her skin are fresh, most likely from last night. She shouldn’t have waited that long, some of the bruises already changed colour. She cleaned the cuts with alcohol, he can tell from the smell.

_Beaten first_ , Tristan muses as healing magic radiates from his hands. _Then her customer got creative and used a knife. And yet she didn’t scream._

In a place like this everyone knows when something bad happens. Red Unicorn’s workers are not only loyal but also look out for each other. If a man dares to hit one of them, he can be sure he’ll never set foot in this place again.

Yet the woman doesn’t want to say a word about the person who did this to her.

“If you need my help in matters other than healing…” Tristan tries again.

Much to his dismay the woman shakes her head, lips pressed into a thin line.

“I can handle this myself.”

_You clearly can’t_ , Tristan thinks but says nothing. The bruises on her skin disappear, healed by his magic.

Elya gives him a look, a warning of sorts, her eyes pleading. Perhaps she knows what he’s thinking, maybe she’s good at reading people.

“I’m serious, Tristan. Promise me that you won’t tell anyone about this. Tatius cannot know.”

The owner of this establishment wouldn’t be too happy to learn that one of the clients has a fondness of beating women. This is the sleaziest part of Vyrantium, yet there are _rules_ here. Tatius would show the client that the Red Unicorn doesn’t tolerate this type of behaviour. It’s a brothel, alright, but even a brothel has standards.

There has to be a reason why Elya wants to hide it from her employer.

“I promise,” Tristan lies with ease. Seeing relief on the woman’s face almost makes him wince.

She nods, then looks at her freshly healed skin. With slight surprise painted on her face, she touches the places that were covered in bruises mere minutes ago.

“Thank you.” When Elya looks him in the eyes there’s a smile on her lips. Forced and fake, but a smile nonetheless. She swiftly fixes her dress, stands up, and just like that she’s ready to work again, her fears skilfully hidden behind a lovely smile.

“You’re welcome. It’s what I’m here for.”

Healing her bruises doesn’t cost him anything. Keeping silent may cost her life, however, so he needs to think how to solve this problem in the best way possible. Tristan has to ask around, and sooner or later he’ll know which of the brothel’s clients likes violence a bit too much. He may only hope that Elya won’t end up with a broken neck instead of few bruises next time.

“As a token of my gratitude I’ll send you a bottle of the finest Antivan brandy,” she says, walking to the door. “Or I can pray for you, instead. You can tell today’s a holiday because even regulars aren’t here. Seeing an empty brothel is just sad, don’t you think?”

Tristan considers telling her that a prostitute letting her client beat her, and refusing to talk about it is even sadder, but he stops before the words can leave his lips. He doesn’t want to make her hate him, it would only make his job of finding out who did it to her more difficult.

“Never cared that much about prayers. Antivan brandy, on the other hand…”

Tristan doesn’t finish, distracted by a sudden glow coming from his robe’s pocket. The communicating crystal glows impatiently, signalising there’s someone waiting on the other side.

Elya gives him one more smile before leaving, but he barely even notices, fumbling with his robe to fish out the blighted thing from his pocket. Holding the crystal in his hand, Tristan can already feel a goofy smile appear on his lips. Part of him didn’t want to believe that Crassius Servis would gather enough courage to contact him. Truth to be told, Tristan doesn’t want to leave Vyrantium so quickly. Crassius is finally back in Tevinter, and maybe, just maybe, they can work things out.

Tristan won’t admit how much he missed him, of course he won’t, letting his pride win with reason. It’s time for them both to grow up, and perhaps then…

He takes a deep breath and concentrates his magic, activating the crystal. Before he hears the voice from the other side, Tristan speaks first, forcing his voice to sound as confident as ever.

“Crassius, let me tell you how amazed I am that you’re contacting me. Did you not enjoy last night’s celebrations that you’re calling me so early? Or are you simply bored by the pious masses all around, and require my assistance to do something infinitely more interesting than throwing white roses into flames?”

No answer. Tristan blinks, confused, staring at the glowing crystal in his hand.

“Crassius?” he asks, uncertain, feeling something like an icy spike of doubt piercing his thoughts.

Posca’s voice coming from the crystal sounds so weary Tristan nearly doesn’t recognise it.

“Master Tristan, I’m begging you to come to the estate. I apologise for disrupting your day, but you must come here at once. Young master, he…”

The spike twists and sinks deeper, soon followed by another, and another one until Tristan is nearly paralysed.

“Please,” Posca speaks after a beat. “I’m begging you. Come, at once.”

 

* * *

 

What happens next is a blur. If someone asked, Tristan wouldn’t be able to explain how he got from one place to another. Maybe he ran, though he doesn’t remember running.

The streets are mostly empty, save for slaves hurrying to work. Servis’ house is rather far from the docks, yet for Tristan it feels like he got here in a blink of an eye.

Posca nearly falls down on his knees when Tristan arrives.

“What happened?” the healer asks, his voice hollow.

If he thinks the servant will offer some sort of comfort, he’s completely wrong.

“Come with me, master Tristan. Young master desperately needs your help.”

Something like thorns twist in his gut, threatening to tear him apart.

He follows Posca upstairs to the main bedroom. For a split second he hesitates before going inside the room. _Can’t be that bad if they still need a healer_ , he tells himself, the thought far from reassuring.

Yet Tristan can’t help but imagine every terrible thing possible until he sees the person lying on the bed. It’s Servis, and he’s _alive_ , his chest is rising and falling and he breaths, seemingly sleeping. His sickly pale skin glistens with sweat, lips shivering ever so slightly.

Tristan gathers the courage to step closer.

The bandaged stump of his right hand is the first thing he notices, and Tristan struggles not to make any sounds.

Posca speaks, his words muffled as if he was standing behind a glass wall. The whole word seems to shrink down, all sounds distorted, and Tristan can barely comprehend what the servant is saying.

“I cleaned the wound as best I as I could but I fear he lost too much blood. He got here at dawn, how I cannot tell you, master Tristan. The stable boy found him by the back gate. He was delirious, his fever so high that I feared…” the old man stops. He closes his eyes for a second. “I did what I could, but I’m no healer. He wouldn’t stop crying in pain, wouldn’t let me touch his hand, it was bleeding so much, that’s why I gave him the sleeping potion. Not much, just to let him rest in peace!”

Tristan nods, not looking at the servant, his eyes fixed at the bloody bandages he carefully unwraps from the stump of Servis’ hand. His own hands shake only a little. The blade cut below the elbow, hacking off the rest of his arm. The pain must have been unbearable.

_How..?_ he wants to ask even though there’s no one here who could explain what happened. Servis sleeps; or he most likely lost consciousness after losing so much blood.

Tristan leans in and inhales, sensing a faint smell among the blood, sweat, and the scent of freshly washed bedsheets. He narrows his eyes, anger rising in his heart. _Magebane_. Someone dared to use magebane on a Tevinter mage, on a magister’s son, and it happened in the second largest city in the Imperium amidst the procession for the dead. The question is, how much of the substance was forced on Servis, and what did it do to his powers.

Tristan shakes his head, deciding to focus on a more pressing matter first. The last bandage lays on the floor, revealing a bloody stump. From the look of the wound it’s clear the attacker needed to strike twice, or more, before they managed to chop off the hand.

Tristan bites the inside of his cheek, hard, his own pain distracting him from imagining the blade cutting the skin, a severed hand laying on the ground, while Servis screamed.

Magic wakes up inside him as he places his hands on the wound. He doesn’t need to think about it, it simply happens, his powers manifesting as blue light.

_No matter what happens, stay calm_. His mentor’s voice echoes in Tristan’s mind. He takes a deep breath. The bloody mess changes in front of his eyes, healing magic fixing what was damaged.

_No matter who requires your help, stay calm_. Orta is the one and only mage Tristan has ever admired. Her hands were always cold, when she slapped her students’ faces or when she grabbed their hands to push them inside an open belly of some beast she brought for them so they could practice anatomy and try to heal the damaged tissues.

_Fix it!_ , he remembers her yelling, hitting him in the head with a stick when he hesitated, his stomach turning at the sight before him. _You are a healer, if you hesitate, people die!_

Not many mages choose to practice healing magic in the Minrathous Circle of Magi. Enchanter Orta and her unorthodox methods of teaching are one of the reasons. Despite that, Tristan never regretted his choice.

_Stay calm_. Her voice is strict yet soothing, making the icy dread disappear from his heart. He may start worrying later, but now he needs to be a healer first and foremost, and do what’s required of him.

His mind commands the powers to heal every smallest wound, bandages no longer needed as new skin covers the stump now. Tristan moves his attention to Servis’ face, spells healing a broken nose, and every cut. His magic finds a broken rib, bruised knees. Nobody fully comprehends how magic works, though it doesn’t matter as long as it _works_ , allowing its user to do wonders.

Tristan exhales. It’s done; other than the missing hand, there’s no trace that could indicate what happened to Servis. He adds a sleeping spell, just in case, so Servis can get enough rest and gather power to explain how he ended up like this.

“Is he– ” Posca begins, his voice strained.

_Not dead? He lives, old man. He won’t die. I won’t allow it._

“He’ll be fine,” Tristan says. Lying has always been easy for him; half–truths are more convenient than blunt truth.

_I don’t know_ , he wants to admit but never does because the thought nearly breaks his heart. Before he can think, his hand caresses Servis’ pale face. He quickly gets up, cursing himself for being a sentimental fool.

“Did he say anything?”

Tristan whips his head to glance at a woman standing at the door. She has fiery red hair, but what strikes most about her appearance is a scar on her cheek, from her eye to the corner of her jaw.

_You could get it healed in no time_ , Tristan idly thinks, even though something tells him the woman would never allow anyone to get rid of the scar. She wants to remember, of what Tristan doesn’t know, and to be completely honest he doesn’t care that much.

Another person stands behind her, a tall man with dark hair slicked back. He’s considerably older than the woman, and there’s something about him that makes Tristan wary. Maybe it’s the glint of anger in his eyes, it’s hard to tell.

Besides, Tristan doesn’t pay them more attention than needed, feeling more tired with every passing second.

“Crassius is asleep,” he says dismissively, not in a mood to talk with strangers.

The woman’s lips twist. It’s obviously not what she wanted to hear. “He was with two other people, Ontario and Lady Calpernia. Did he mention their names?”

“Calpernia?” Tristan asks, confused, but moments later he remembers the woman he met when he was here not so long ago. Rather short, face covered with freckles, and a gap between her front teeth. He wouldn’t call her pretty, _interesting_ perhaps, although there was something about her when she looked at him with a mysterious smile on her lips. “I hope your mistress will come back unharmed.”

The reaction to his words is so odd it makes Tristan wonder what exactly is the relationship between all these people. The man just stares at him, looking slightly offended but mostly shocked that anyone would think that. The red– haired girl blushes, rushing to explain that Lady Calpernia isn’t her mistress but… She hesitates long enough that even a blind man could guess her feelings.

“The sleeping spell should wear off in the evening,” Tristan says to change the topic. “Then we shall ask Crassius what happened to him, and where are his other companions. But only _if_ he feels strong enough to have this sort of conversation,” he quickly adds, giving the two of them a meaningful look. Then he turns to Posca. “Prepare water, leave it here. He’ll be thirsty when he wakes up. And fresh clothes and bedsheets. I’ll stay by his side.”

The old servant nods, his tired eyes fixed on his master. When nobody moves, Tristan speaks, his voice loud and clear, although he himself doesn’t know if there’s any strength in him left.

“Leave us. Crassius needs to rest. It’s no use standing here and waiting for him to wake up. His body needs time to heal properly.”

The girl and the man finally leave, followed by Posca who looks like he’s about to burst into tears. Once the servant is gone, Tristan looks at the man on the bed.

_I should have been there with you._

He allows himself one long, half choked sob, balling his trembling hands into fists. The ache in his chest nearly makes him faint.

Then he takes a deep breath, straightens his back and sits down on a chair near the bed. Servis sleeps, looking almost blissful. Colour has returned to his face, his body no longer tormented by fever.

_Stay calm_ , Tristan says to himself, repeating the words like a spell.

Incredibly, the spell works.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: sorry I couldn’t update the story earlier.   
> This chapter is again an experiment of sorts as I try to develop yet another OC.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Calpernia discovers that Tevinter is a small place sometimes.

She wrinkles her nose smelling hay around her. If there is a smell she truly hates it’s this, and later she needs to scrub her skin to get rid of it. It seems to cling to every inch of her skin, every piece of her clothing, marking her and further alienating from the rest of people serving in this house.

Calpernia tosses and turns, trying to catch one more moment of blissful sleep. Her body is already awake, and she’ll have to get up soon. Another night she has to sleep in the stables. Other slaves whisper behind her back, give her hostile looks. She’s not one of them, she never will be, so she may as well accept her fate.

Yet it hurts, being cast away.

Calpernia’s eyes snap open. She should get up before Sorka finds her. The dwarven steward is quick to use a stick to remind everyone they have to do their job properly. Calpernia tries to sit up but her whole body is so sore she can only groan in pain. She’s shaking, feeling unexplained coldness as if blood in her veins turned to ice.

But she has to get up. If she finishes early then she will sneak to the library, find the book she’s started reading, though she can’t quite remember what book she chose this time. Something about the Old Gods, perhaps, or a biography of one of the previous Archons. Erasthenes has so many books, more than she could possibly read even if she could spend all her days doing nothing but reading. Most of them are about history but there are others that describe…

_Magic_.

Calpernia’s eyes widen. The cold air makes her shudder as she sits up with a groan of pain. Her body is sore, strained muscles ache. The strong smell of hay makes her sneeze. She looks around in confusion. The place is surely a stable though it’s not the one that belongs to her master.

But… isn’t Erasthenes long dead? She never found out what exactly happened to him…

She looks down on her robe, white fabric dirty and stained, and still so very different than her usual clothes. Hesitantly she touches her neck but her fingers feel nothing but her own skin. Calpernia takes a shaking breath. Slowly, everything returns to her in a wave of emotions that makes her shiver.

The procession, so many people all around her. Three armed men in silver armours, Servis’ panicked glance at her. His big, honest eyes filled by fear because he was first to notice the danger. Then the knife sticking out of Ontario’s chest, the elf fell down on the ground as a red flower of blood bloomed on his robe. Servis took her hand and pulled, urging her to run but she couldn’t do anything other than look at her companion dead on the cold ground.

And her magic was silenced, replaced by that horrifying cold dread, her power conquered by the foul templar trick. Because they had to be templars wearing Imperial armours, but the matter of how Tevinter templars could be so powerful has to wait for another time. She is too tired to think about it right now.

When she woke up in the temple of Andoral she was alone but for the one person she expected to see the least. Calpernia bites her lower lip to stop it from quivering. _Don’t make me remember_ , she pleads yet her mind replays every single word magister Anodatus said to her, his voice so mocking as if he was speaking to a child he needed to scold.

_“They were loyal till the end.”_

Calpernia squeezes her eyes shut. More death, everywhere she goes. She sent Lucius and Berard to Quarinus only to get them captured and killed. They were with her since the day she walked the streets of Minrathous as a free woman for the very first time. She promised them freedom but what they got in return was death.

Her thoughts are full of doubt but she pushes them away, and pretends she’s not worried at all. She has to ignore the burning questions of what happened to Servis, if the attackers went back to his house to finish the job. She _must_ ignore them all or else she will go mad with worry. She yet lives.

She stares blankly at her shaking hands, concentrating and reaching out to the powers within her. She imagines fire, longing for the familiar warmth that could make the cold dread within her disappear.

Nothing happens. No flames appear on her fingertips. Her magic is distant and cold, locked behind a barrier created by a templar spell.

_What if it’s not temporary this time?_ Her mind is filled with doubt.

Hearing footsteps, Calpernia turns her head to look at the door. A young woman appears, dressed in a short orange tunic, with a leather collar on her slender neck. There are golden bracelets on her wrists and ankles that move with a silent clank with her every step. She has a pretty oval face and plump lips that curl into an anxious smile when she looks at Calpernia.

“Don’t be afraid,” she speaks, kneeling down next to Calpernia. She puts a waterskin and three pieces of bread in a small basket on the floor, an offering of sorts. “I’m not going to hurt you. Are you hungry? I’ll bring you more food if you want.”

Her voice is gentle and kind, and there’s no trace of treachery in her brown eyes. She speaks perfect Tevene. Calpernia watches her warily for a moment, before grabbing the waterskin to drink, suddenly feeling more thirsty than ever.

“My name’s Mira,” the woman continues. “I’m glad to see you’ve recovered. I was worried you may not wake up.”

_Why?_ Calpernia wants to ask this stranger. She wipes her face with the back of her hand. Her throat burns like it was on fire.

Mira has honest if not _naïve_ eyes, perhaps she really is a good person. Or maybe she merely pretends, because nothing’s simple in this cruel world.

“I found you near the temple of Andoral. While my master went to take part in the procession, I wanted to go to the temple and leave my offering there. I know I shouldn’t but…” the girl stammers, flustered. She talks too much, maybe it’s a carefully planned act; or perhaps she doesn’t have anyone to talk to. “It’s silly, I know, but it’s like the gods listen. And praying to them is easier. I can’t go to the Chantry, I’m not allowed to go there. But the Old Gods don’t mind I’m not of noble birth.”

She stops, pink blush colours her face. There’s softness in her, and a certain naivety that makes her look like a fragile little thing. She’s pretty, very much so, and considering the robes she’s wearing, and the fact that she can move freely, it’s easy to guess what’s her position among the slaves in this house.

“Did you leave your offering?” Calpernia asks. Hearing how raspy her voice sounds she massages her throat. “In the temple of the Old God.”

Mira nods. “I brought you here, then at dawn I went back to the temple. Prayed for you as well, I hope you don’t mind. I prayed your master forgives you.”

Calpernia frowns. How is she supposed to even begin explaining her situation to this girl..?

„What did you do?” Mira asks in a hushed voice. Seeing confusion on Calpernia’s face she adds, “That you were punished you so badly? What did you do to displease your master?”

The woman doesn’t know, she cannot possibly know, she’s just a simple girl who thinks her master’s estate is her whole world. Yet hearing her assume so much awakens Calpernia’s ire, along with a deeply hidden fear that she will never be free from her past.

“I apologise for my curiosity,” Mira blushes. “I understand if you don’t want to talk about it. I brought you new clothes. Nothing fancy as the one you wear, but your robe is ruined so it’s better you change into something else. It was very kind of your master to give you such fancy robe. I’m sure he’ll take you back.”

Calpernia’s hands shake when she balls them into fists. She accept the clothes with a nod. It’s a tunic similar to the one Mira is wearing, grey instead of orange.

“Is he kind?” she asks, staring blankly at the tunic, frighteningly similar to the one she used to wear in Erasthenes’ house. “You master, I mean.”

It’s like a spell. Mira’s face lights up with a smile, eyes glistening with honest love. “He’s the kindest person in the world.”

Calpernia’s heart nearly breaks. _How little you know…_ If she told her that all she has is an illusion, because she has nothing in fact, and it’s one man whose whims decide if she lives or dies; if Calpernia told her all that Mira wouldn’t believe her, too blind in her slavish adoration.

_You may be his body slave now, live a comfortable life and think he’s good and kind. But one day he’ll grow tired of you, when you’re not so young and pretty anymore, and he’s going to break your heart._

No, Calpernia can’t possibly tell her that. It would be cruel.

“May I ask who is your master? Does he know you brought me here?”

Mira shakes her head. “He’s not back from the celebrations yet. I’ll tell him when he arrives, he’ll surely understand.”

_Highly doubtful_. Calpernia smiles bitterly. Mira’s fairy tale life might end when her master discovers she brought a suspicious stranger under his roof.

“What’s your master’s name?” she prompts. It’s probably someone she doesn’t know, then again she’s only heard about three or four families that live in Vyrantium. _Servis would know_ , she thinks with a pang of regret.

“Master Tulio,” Mira replies, and for a second Calpernia believes she imagined what the girl’s just said.

“Aurelius Tulio?” she asks, too surprised to mask her emotions.

“Yes, Aurelius Tulio is my master. This is his estate. Do you know my master? Do you come from Minrathous as well? He took me with him to Vyrantium for the celebration of Funalis. Does your master know him?”

Calpernia hesitates, unable to form an answer that could satisfy Mira’s genuine interest. It sounds like a joke, that the man she wanted to get in contact with is the one who owns this slave. It all sounds like some huge coincidence, or the worst joke in her life.

She wants to laugh. She didn’t get to meet him during the procession, yet now fate throws her right to his very home, because of all people who could help her, it was his personal body slave.

She looks at Mira’s honest eyes, now filled with confusion. “I’d be very grateful if I could speak to your master once he returns.”

“I’ll surely tell him about you. As I said, he’ll understand and won’t banish you from here. You may stay here for now. But if you hope that he’s willing to buy you from your current master…”

Calpernia shakes her head. Everything’s so simple in this girl’s head. “I merely want to talk to him,” she says, half believing this is actually happening.

Mira nods. “I’ll send for you in the morning, after breakfast. Master Tulio will be tired when he comes back. I don’t want to bother him with trivial matters.”

_Believe me, it’s not a trivial matter._

“Gratitude. Hopefully one day I’ll be able to repay your kindness, Mira.”

“No need to help me,” she replies with a smile. “I merely did what every other person would do.”

In the woman’s world it is as simple as that. Calpernia merely nods.

Mira then leaves her, asking her to rest. Calpernia doesn’t really listen, her mind working on a plan. It feels good to have something to focus on. She needs to speak to the magister. Then she may get back to worrying about other matters.

She tries to cast a spell again, staring intensely at her hands but her magic remains silent.

With a huff of irritation she changes into the tunic Mira brought. Her white robe is in a pitiful state, dirty and torn. Yet another thing for which she has to pay Servis back.

She quickly eats the bread, wondering what she should do once the magister arrives. And _when_. Did she spend all day sleeping here? It’s difficult to tell how much time passed, everything is blurred together in her mind.

It’s getting dark outside, and Calpernia decides to  have a better orientation in her surroundings. Standing at the stable’s door, she may see a back entry, most likely leading to the kitchen, and big door wide opened, showing a piece of the interior. It might be the main room, providing the house is built like any other traditional Tevinter estate.

Calpernia waits a longer while, looking around if there are other slaves waiting for their master’s arrival. The place appears to be oddly empty. If magister Tulio is half as good and kind as Mira claims, he might have let his slaves go celebrate Funalis, and that’s why the place is deserted. She spots two guards with spears by the gate at the back of the estate. They’re talking, not paying much attention what’s happening behind their backs. Taking a deep breath, Calpernia quickly walks to the big door and gets inside the house unnoticed.

Just like she predicted, this is the room where the owner usually meets with his guests. There are three ottomans arranged around a table, a collection of vases by the left wall. The ceiling was painted to resemble a blue sky with two dragons, one silver and one gold, flying among the clouds.

On the right side of the spacious room there’s a curtain, and Calpernia hides behind it discovering it covers a small washroom. A square marble tub is empty but there are wooden buckets filled with water standing next to it.

Suddenly she hears a carriage arriving, two horses whining and a man telling them to stop. Her whole body tense, she walks to the curtain and pushes it aside just enough so she could watch the main room.

“All that incense gave me a terrible headache.”

Calpernia’s breath catches in her throat as she observes magister Aurelius Tulio walk briskly through the room, unaware there’s an intruder in his house. He sits down on an ottoman and reaches for a glass to pour himself wine.

He’s a tall man with dark hair shaved short. Even with a displeased expression on his face he’s handsome. He has piercing green eyes, a square jaw, and looks around thirty, with no wrinkles marking his face. He’s not wearing any jewellery, not for Funalis at least, his robe is white and simple as tradition dictates though with enough silver embroidery on his chest and sleeves to show off his status.

There’s another person following him, however, a woman in a similar white robe. She on the other hand is wearing bracelets on her arms, and a wide necklace that resembles a dragon coiled around her neck, with a ruby right in the middle.

There’s a striking resemblance between them, but if Aurelius is tall and slender, his sister is significantly shorter and plump. They both have the same dark hair and green eyes, but from what Calpernia learned from Servis this is where similarities between them end. He’s actively involved in Tevinter politics, while she doesn’t care about it in the slightest.

“You didn’t even took part in the procession,” Hestia shakes her head.

“But I did go to the Chantry. The place smelled terrible, what was the Grand Enchanter thinking?”

His displeasure disappears in an instant when he sees Mira approaching. The slave girl looks at him as if he was the Maker Himself, so blissfully happy. He puts away his glass and opens his arms for her. Seeing them kiss, Calpernia thinks it’s no wonder the girl doesn’t see anything wrong about her life. She’s her master favourite, why would she have anything to complain about?

“Bring us food, and more wine,” he orders with a smile.

Mira nods and complies. Calpernia takes a step back, but the girl seems so love struck that Calpernia doesn’t have to worry that she might be seen.

“I gather Sophia is blissfully unaware of the pretty girl by your side,” Hestia says once the slave girl disappears.

He waves his hand. “Sophia is safe in Minrathous. I’m not particularly interested in what she does in her spare time, and vice versa. That’s the secret of a happy marriage, my dear sister, not being too invested in the other person.”

Hestia scoffs. She sits on the other ottoman, idly playing with the bracelet on her wrist. Her robe reveals too much cleavage for Calpernia’s liking, though the woman doesn’t seem to care.

This seems like as good moment as any. She takes a calming breath and walks forward, revealing herself to the unsuspecting siblings. Hestia sees her first. Her eyes widen but she doesn’t appear frightened that there’s an unknown woman in the house.

Calpernia takes another step forward. “Don’t be alarmed. I’m only here to talk.”

It’s not the best beginning but it’s too late now. She blushes slightly, pondering just how ridiculous this situation has to be.

The instant Tulio’s eyes are on her a spell hits the floor, making Calpernia stop, missing her bare feet just so and leaving a dark stain on the marble floor. Magister Tulio stands ready to cast another spell, a ball of crackling white energy hovering above his hand.

“Wait, brother,” Hestia raises her hand. No magic flows from her direction, prompting a question in Calpernia’s mind if this woman is a mage like her brother. Interestingly enough it appears that she isn’t. “Let the poor creature explain herself before striking her with lightning like some uncultured brute.”

Before the magister can reply, Mira is back with food. Her short scream is followed by a loud clang, as a tray she’s holding falls down on the floor. A bottle of wine breaks, along with a bowl of freshly peeled oranges and a plate of cakes, food and alcohol mixing together in a mess near her feet.

The light in Tulio’s hand disappears. He glares angrily at the girl. “Clean this up this instant,” he orders, all warmth from earlier gone.

Mira shoots one more glance at Calpernia, before running away to bring a piece of cloth and a wooden bucket with water from the washroom where Calpernia was hiding just moments ago. She starts cleaning in silence, her face flushed with embarrassment.

“Explain to me why I shouldn’t throw you out on the street,” the magister speaks and sits down. He appears more in control now, observing Calpernia warily.

“As I said, I’m here to talk, nothing more.”

Magic fills the air, making goosebumps appear on Calpernia’s skin. He’s a powerful mage, that’s certain.

“How did you get in here? How did my guards not see you?”

_You’ll have to ask Mira about this_.

“It’s not important. What I have to say concerns the future of this country,” she stops, realising she may sound a bit overdramatic. “I tried my best to contact you, magister Tulio, because I believe you are exactly the person Tevinter needs.”

It’s not entirely true but she has to be careful. The magister’s lips twist as if he wasn’t sure if she’s mocking him or not. Hestia observes her with interest, toying with one of her bracelets.

“What do you mean? And _who_ are you?”

When she wanted to speak to this man during the procession, she had a whole speech prepared. Now, however, Calpernia’s mind doesn’t want to cooperate. She knows how this must look – a stranger appears out of nowhere, wearing a slave’s clothes, and starts talking about something that doesn’t really make any sense. She needs to make it simple.

“I’m here to ask you a question. You openly speak against the Archon. You’re not the only one who thinks the Imperium will crumble if we don’t act. My question is this, magister Tulio, do you truly believe this country needs reforming?”

He watches her with his eyes narrowed, his handsome face tense but devoid of emotions. Not showing any potential weaknesses is part of his life.

“Why does it matter if I do?” he asks, reaching for a bottle of wine from the table. He refills his glass and takes a sip. Then his eyes return to Calpernia. It’s like there’s a wall separating them, a wealthy magister and a strange nobody.

Calpernia lifts up her chin. “It means the group I represent could benefit from having the privilege of calling you our ally.”

There’s no group, and the only person she represents is herself. Tulio doesn’t know all that, so she may pretend, at least for now. If she can convince him it’s time to _do_ something, then she will tell him the truth.

The magister puts the empty cup on the table. His magic subsides, and he relaxes slightly.

“You speak of dangerous things. But let’s say I agree with you.”

Calpernia gives him a smile, even though her face feels like a mask. “I’m very glad to hear that. I won’t trouble you further.” She glances at Mira who’s still wiping the floor. The slave girl tries her best to ignore the whole situation and focus on the task. Calpernia can only pray she won’t be punish once her master finds out she brought Calpernia here. “Have a nice evening. It was a pleasure to meet you both.”

Their eyes watch her closely as she walks outside through the back door. There’s a man standing by the carriage, feeding two horses. He gives Calpernia a puzzled look when she walks by him to the gate. The guards seem equally confused but thankfully ask her no questions. Once she’s on the street, she takes a deep breath.

_It didn’t go that terribly_. There are lamps burning with magical lights along the street. This has to be a wealthy part of Vyrantium.

_It could have gone worse_ , Calpernia decides and begins walking.

With no coin all she can do is walk on foot. The problem is that she doesn’t exactly know in what part of the city she is, and how to get back to Servis’ house. The hour is late, there aren’t many people on the street. A small carriage passes her as she walks, and Calpernia wonders if she just made a terrible mistake. If she didn’t reveal herself but waited till Mira talked to her master, perhaps Tulio would be more interested in what she had to tell him. Calpernia glances at her hand, calling out to her powers. Nothing happens, making her more distressed.

But then another carriage stops right next to her, and the door opens revealing Hestia sitting inside. “Do you need a ride home?”

Calpernia gives her a measured look. _Is this a joke?_

“Hop in, I don’t bite. Besides, I need to talk to you. Your speech was very, hmm, intriguing. I am amazed by your courage.”

She could just walk away. She _should_ ignore this woman and walk away. But Calpernia learned to trust her instincts and for a reason she can’t quite understand she decides to get in. The carriage is so small that when she takes a seat on the opposite side their knees nearly touch.

“Where to?” Hestia asks. There’s something about her Calpernia can’t quite decipher. One thing is certain, it would be foolish to trust a person she’s just met, especially now. “Where do you need to go?”

“To the Red Unicorn,” Calpernia lies, much to Hestia’s amusement. Servis mentioned the place once or twice, and because of the storm of thoughts in her head she couldn’t think of anything else. She doesn’t know Vyrantium that well, but she does know how to get from the marketplace back to Servis’ home.

The woman repeats the name to the driver, and the carriage begins moving again. For a moment Hestia observes her like she was studying a statue in a museum. “What an odd choice for a place to stay. To be honest I can’t imagine you working there. And I don’t see the infamous tattoo.”

She looks Calpernia up and down as if really looking for the sign that she’s employed in that place.

“I don’t work there,” Calpernia explains, trying to keep her voice calm.

“But you’re not a slave?” Hestia probes, pointing at her robe and bare feet.

“I’m a free woman,” Calpernia says with pride. With her magic still locked away, all she has are her words.

“I’m trying to understand you,” Hestia continues, idly caressing the ruby on her throat with her index finger. In the small carriage her perfume fills the air; it’s strong but not unpleasant, smelling like nothing Calpernia knows, something awfully sweet. “You appear in my brother’s house, like a spirit summoned from the Fade. You speak of something dangerously close to revolution, insinuating that Aurelius should act against the Archon. Some could think you’re planning treason.”

“I merely wanted to ask magister Tulio what he thinks about Tevinter politics.”

Hestia scoffs. She’s not buying this.

“He’s not who you think he is, my brother,” Hestia says. She’s looking at some unspecified point on the floor, perhaps wondering if she should really speak, but then her eyes move back to Calpernia.

Hestia Tulio has dark eyes that glisten with a cold flame. She appears to be slightly older than her brother, there are small wrinkles around her eyes, visible despite a layer of powder covering her face. She looks at Calpernia, making her slightly uncomfortable. She’s a beautiful woman, surely aware of her own beauty.

“What do you mean?” Calpernia prompts. She lifts up her chin in a way of defiance, looking Hestia straight in the eyes.

“Do you truly believe in what you told my brother?” the woman asks instead of answering. “Do you really wish to see the Imperium change?”

“Yes, I do,” Calpernia says, deciding to risk it all and say the truth for a change. It seems Hestia appreciates the honesty as she smiles, and this time her smile is genuine.

Suddenly the carriage stops. Hestia looks through the window. “Here it is. The Red Unicorn. I may visit the place again one day. It’s charming, in a way. For a brother, at least.”

Calpernia frowns, angry that their conversation didn’t go anywhere. The woman was probably just toying with her, and Calpernia was so desperate that for a second she believed Hestia was being serious.

Her hand is on the door, Calpernia is ready to leave and forget about this conversation, when Hestia speaks again.

“Does the name Lucerni mean anything to you?”

The question hovers in the air. Calpernia doesn’t move, considers her options but doesn’t leave the carriage, not yet, curious if Hestia has something more to say.

“If it does, then our goals may be more similar than you realise,” Hestia adds after a beat. Calpernia doesn’t have to look at her to know the woman has a smile on her face.

She gets out and closes the door behind her. After a moment the carriage starts moving again. Calpernia watches it until it disappears behind a tall building.

Lucerni is a group formed by Maevaris Tilani, the very same person Calpernia wanted to contact.

All of a sudden the Imperium seems like a very small place. Or maybe she’s slowly getting to meet every important player. Everyone knows that all people of note are somehow connected. The question is if what Hestia told her is true.

Calpernia bites her lower lip. She’s finding more and more questions everywhere she goes.

After a moment of consideration, she glances around and starts walking, soon leaving the marketplace behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I found it difficult to write this chapter, and I guess it shows because nothing really *flows* together in the right way.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Servis slowly learns to deal with his new reality.

His reflection in the mirror stares back at him, blue eyes glistening with disbelief. There’s something in his face he can’t quite recognise.

His gaze moves down. The man in the mirror is wearing a sleeveless robe, and a leather belt. Simple clothes, not fit for a magister’s son, but he hardly cares. He has a wide golden bracelet beneath his elbow, a way of hiding an ugly stump.

He wasn’t punished because he took some old map. He was punished for the things he did when he was with the Venatori. They needed resources, and, well, he had access to many places. One he saw how much _more_ the black market offered, he realised that was the only way of getting what he needed. He had contacts who could get the Venatori whatever they required. They made him feel _useful_. Instead of sitting in a library among old dusty tomes he could travel, explore, discover things left forgotten in the past. And he naively believed that it didn’t matter they were a cult serving some old darkspawn claiming he’s a god.

But it did matter when the Imperial templars seized him.

He can feel his right hand, and at times he believes it’s still there, that he’s whole again. But when he tries to move his fingers or ball his hand into a fist, or grab something with his right hand, only then he truly realizes that a piece of him is missing.

Servis feels his lips twitch. He wants to cry or laugh, he’s not so sure anymore.

His hand holding the razor shakes. It happens all the time, as if it was his body’s form of protest. Servis lets out a sigh, stills his hand and begins to shave.

The blade cuts his skin and he hisses, throwing the razor impatiently on the floor.

Tristan is by his side in an instant. He  grabs the razor, cleans it in a bowl of water standing on a table nearby. “Here, let me.”

“No, I have to do it myself,” Servis moves away. “Am I _that_ pathetic that you want to do everything for me now?”

There’s anger in his voice, too much anger in fact, so much that Servis himself is surprised.

“You’re angry. That’s good,” he says. He touches lightly Servis’ face with the tip of his index finger, making the cut disappear. Healing magic faintly smells like the air after the storm.

Servis offers no reply, uncertain what to say. He needs to focus on little things, making himself look less miserable for a start, fighting with an overwhelming need to go back to sleep and never wake up.

“Getting ready to finally do something?” Samson’s voice sounds like an irritated bark.

Servis glances at the man standing at the door. _The robes he’s wearing doesn’t fit him at all_ , he idly thinks even though it doesn’t matter in the slightest. The former templar looks like he’s mocking the fine Tevinter clothing. He got these clothes to blend in with the people on the streets of Vyrantium when he goes out with Talia to search for clues. Servis explained in great detail what happened, told them that Calpernia is gone and whoever took her clearly doesn’t want her to be found, but his explanations matter little.

Samson and Talia returned from yet another futile trip, and Servis doesn’t need to ask him if they found anything. He sees the disquiet in Samson’s eyes, lips pressed into a thin line, arms folded on his broad chest. Samson is ready to fight – but finding no opponent, no adversary to blame and challenge, he grows restless.

“There’s not much we can do,” Sevis admits with defeat. Samson’s glare reminds him of the day they met for the first time. It feels like it happened ages ago.

“So what, are we going to just sit here doing nothing?”

“You’ve already went to that place and found nothing. I get that you’re impatient but you need to understand that we weren’t attacked by some common thugs,” Servis explains for what feels like the hundredth time. “Those were the Archon’s men. Imperial templars unlike any other I’ve ever met. They were powerful enough to silence my magic that I couldn’t feel my powers until now.”

Samson scoffs. “If that’s all Tevinter templars can do, then they can’t do shit.”

“Do you consider yourself an expert on templars?” Tristan asks, annoyance clear in his voice, and it’s then that Servis realises the healer doesn’t know anything about the man.

Or about Lady Calpernia. Or what exactly Servis was doing in the south.

Samson gives Tristan a pitiful look. “Yes, I do consider myself an expert on templars. You could say I’m a fucking fount of knowledge on the Templar Order. Your silly Tevinter way of underestimating what exactly can a templar do to a mage is a great source of amusement to me.”

It’s as if the very air in the room got colder. Tristan who narrows his eyes at Samson, his lips twisted into an ugly snarl. Tristan is terrible at any other form of magic than healing, but it seems he’s ready to fight if pressed.

Servis knows he has to react before these two jump at each other’s throats, but he’s tired, so terribly tired. His whole body is numb, and his hand, his right hand, hurts in some unexplained way.

“We haven’t been properly introduced,” Tristan says with a forced smile, “and I believe you ought to know one’s name before you punch them in the face.”

Samson scoffs. “I’d love to see you try, Vint.”

“ _Enough_.”

Both stop glaring at each other, and look at Servis instead, tension disappearing in an instant. Servis shoots one more irritated glance at his reflection the mirror.

“Your childish insults give me a headache. If you want to fight like some wild animals, then please, don’t hesitate. Because this is exactly what we need right now.”

Servis huffs in annoyance; if _he_ is supposed to be the voice of reason, the world is surely ending. Paying no attention to the looks on their faces, he walks to the door. Samson takes a step back to let him out. There’s something like a glimpse of embarrassment on the man’s face.

Going downstairs means Posca will surely force him to get something to eat again, giving him worried looks as if he believed Servis would break into pieces any moment. Thankfully the main room is empty, the old servant nowhere to be seen. Servis glances at the door, lost, uncertain what to do. He doesn’t want to admit it but Samson is partially right, sitting and doing nothing drives him crazy as well. He idly touches the bracelet on his arm; if he doesn’t look, his arm feels like it’s whole.

“Young master!”

Posca’s voice is so full of poorly masked worry Servis gets so irrationally angry he can feel bile in his throat. The old servant will tell him to eat or get a bath, or ask if he wants to talk, completely failing to understand it would be best if everyone would just left him alone.

Servis turns around, ready to scold Posca for everything (for nothing, really, but it doesn’t seem to matter), angry at the servant, at himself, at the whole world.

Then he sees Posca closing the door behind a person who just came in, came _back_ , and his anger melts away, making Servis ashamed of how petty it was.

Calpernia gives him a smile. It’s forced and weak but reassuring at the same time. The white robe she wore for the procession is gone, she’s wearing a simple tunic more fit for a servant. Servis wants to tell her something, anything but suddenly his mind is so empty it’s difficult to form words. She studies his face, genuinely happy to see him. Then her eyes finally notice the golden bracelet below his elbow, her expression changing in a heartbeat.

She’s always been good at hiding her emotions, at least when talking to Servis. Calpernia is proud, and fearless, and strong. She intimidated him a little when they began travelling together, that’s true, but Servis soon understood that he had nothing to fear from her because they were on the same side. Lady Calpernia treats her people well. There is a reason others want to follow her.

That’s why it is painful to watch how something _breaks_ in her, lips quivering as she gasps for air, eyes so full of distress and guilt, such raw, exposed guilt Servis wishes she never saw him again only to save her from this pain. His own problems seem distant and insignificant now as he watches her crumble in front of his eyes.

Something inside him protests loudly because this can’t be happening, not to her, the one who commanded the Venatori, the one who endured and survived even after everyone else perished.

He’s by her side in an instant, wrapping his arm around her in an awkward attempt of an embrace. Calpernia gives in completely, much to his surprise, and for the first time he realises how short and skinny she is.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she whispers, her voice muffled as she pulls him close in a tight embrace.

This once in his life Crassius Servis is silent as words fail him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: you could say this is the final chapter of this fic. The next chapter will be a kind of epilogue. As silly as it sounds, I want this story to have “bookends”. This fic begins with Servis meeting Calpernia. In this chapter they meet again albeit in completely different circumstances.  
> But don’t get me wrong, the whole story isn’t over yet. To be honest I didn’t expect it to grow so much. When I started writing this back in July, I thought that _maybe_ I’ll get it to twenty chapters. Now the fic is nearly thirty chapters long, and I’m not even in the middle. Some things were supposed to happen completely differently while other were never fully planned and sort of happened while I was writing. I get the feeling that the story is dragging out for too long, and that’s why it’s getting more and more boring, if it wasn’t already boring in the first place…  
>  Just to clarify, the next fic will be a direct follow up to _Collateral damage_ and will begin exactly where this one ends.   
>  If you got this far and still tolerate my silly attempts of writing a complex story, then I have nothing but utmost respect for you. Thank you for reading.


	29. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: suggested soundtrack: [Exit Music - Westworld OST](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fD4pJ6tboCo).

Calpernia closes her eyes for a second, pushing away her grief to concentrate on this new, unexpected feeling of something squeezing her throat and making her so weak she can barely stand. Despite everything, despite the harm that was done to him, Servis smiles at her, and in that moment Calpernia wonders that maybe this feels like _home_.

Or something close to it, she’s not sure she would know.

When she opens her eyes she catches Samson’s gaze. He stopped mid step walking down the stairs, and he’s looking at her with the kind of expression she can’t quite decipher. Once the initial surprise is gone, she notices the clothes he’s wearing, a fine robe fit for a magister. Servis must have got it for him, perhaps it once belonged to the smuggler. But how could anyone think the former templar is from the Imperium, he doesn’t look Tevinter at all. What a silly thought amidst all this chaos.

Talia interrupts Calpernia’s thoughts as she appears out of nowhere. The girl wraps her arms around Calpernia, trying not to cry and failing miserably. For a heartbeat Calpernia’s terrified what the girl will do once she learns what happened to three other people who, just like her, were once slaves that decided to follow the former leader of the Venatori and paid the highest price for their choice.

The weight of guilt in her heart nearly crushes her. Calpernia takes a deep breath to calm down, listening to Talia’s weeps how worried she was, how scared.

The room quickly gets crowded, much to Calpernia’s surprise. The other man, the healer called Tristan, follows down the stairs. And it’s him who tells Talia to let go of her, his voice gentle but strong enough that she lets go without a word of protest. He’s by Calpernia, asking her questions like any good healer.

“How do you feel? Are you hurt?” There’s a tiny hint of worry in his voice, barely noticeable, but it makes Calpernia wonder in what shape Servis was once he got back home.

“I’m fine,” she manages to say. The look Tristan gives her confirms he doesn’t believe her. Perhaps he’s so used to hearing lies that he may recognise one instantly.

“What about your magic?” he changes the topic. His eyes observe her carefully, his right hand resting on her shoulder. There’s a faint smell of healing magic in the air. “Crassius couldn’t cast until now, those bastards silenced his powers with magebane and some tricks.”

“I’m fine,” she repeats without hesitation. Her moment of weakness is gone, it can’t happen again.

Tristan’s brows knit at the obvious lie. His eyes linger on her for another moment until he finally decides it’s best not to press her further. Sorren appears as well, he probably heard all this commotion, and gives her a sad smile, saying how happy he is to see her back. His eyes betray him, however, showing just how hurt he is. The elf and Ontario served together for the slaver Vicinius back in Val Royeaux. Now Ontario is dead, and there’s nothing keeping Sorren here.

Calpernia glances at the faces around her. _What’s keeping you here?_ , she considers asking to get the answer from every single one of them. She keeps silent instead.

“Alright,” Tristan says in the very same tone of voice he used when speaking to Talia. His hand from Calpernia’s shoulder is gone. “I imagine you wish to rest. We’ll make sure no–one bothers you. Sleep is the best medicine, some say.”

“Actually there’s something I need to do first,” she says, her heart heavy.

And then she tells them. Not everything, not yet, but important parts, because they deserve to know that her plans cost three people their lives. She can’t bring herself to look at them, at Talia’s puffy, red eyes, the golden bracelet on Servis’ right arm. Samson observes her carefully, standing aside as if he couldn’t quite believe she’s here. Tristan listens as well. His face is blank, it’s hard to tell what he really thinks. The fact that he’s by Servis’ side is enough to make Calpernia trust him for now.

Words flow even though her head is empty. It’s like there’s someone else speaking, explaining how she woke up in the Old God’s temple, that it was magister Anodatus who’s responsible (but is he? Isn’t this all her fault?), how she woke up, saved by a servant girl. She keeps the revelation about her possibly allies a secret for now. Talking about all this makes her nearly exhausted.

“There’s nothing I can do for them now. I merely wish to honour their sacrifice.” She glances at Posca, tries to ignores how worried and tired and old he looks, as if years passed since they last saw each other; then she asks if there’s still wood left, enough to build a pyre.

The old servant nods. “Yes. We have whatever you require, lady Calpernia.”

Not even half an hour later flames are burning high in the garden behind the estate. Their heat makes Calpernia take a step back. It’s far from the comforting warmth of fire she can conjure with her magic. Whatever helped her get through the Fade that time when a demon trapped her, Samson and Servis there, is gone as well. It didn’t protect her from the Imperial templars.

Perhaps now that her magic is silenced, and her connection to the Fade shattered, she will be able to sleep peacefully for a change. She doubts it, though. Nothing’s that easy in this world.

Talia’s weeping by her side. Calpernia glances briefly at the girl. Talia’s hair is as fiery as the flames in front of them. Calpernia takes a deep breath; her own eyes are dry.

_I won’t let your sacrifice go to waste._

 

* * *

 

_Vyrantium hasn’t changed in the slightest_ , Tristan muses, as he moves through the streets towards the docks. It’s a bit shocking to discover that everything is going forward, no portals to the Fade opened because some people were attacked. One of them died, the other got his hand cut off, while the third didn’t tell much about what happened but Tristan knows enough to wonder why Calpernia so stubbornly claims she’s alright.

And yet despite all that cruelty, the world as a whole doesn’t seem to care.

Two guards in leather armours stand guarding the main entrance to the Red Unicorn, glaring at him when he approaches. Two Unicorn’s workers stand by them, one man and a woman, and it’s hard to say who’s guarding who. One of the guards puts his hand on a sword by his belt as a not so subtle warning.

“The brothel’s closed today,” barks the other. His golden teeth shine in the sunlight.

“Let him through, he’s the healer the boss told you about,” the woman says, opening the door for Tristan. “We’re closed today, master Tristan. If you’re looking for the boss he’s not here.”

“I just need to get a couple of things from my room,” he explains, confused.

“Be quick about it, then,” the guard tells him.

Tristan quickly gets inside, resisting the urge to talk back. As he climbs the stairs all the way up, he discovers the place is oddly empty and silent, every door he sees is locked. Something must have happened, but he doesn’t have time for seeking the explanation. He should simply pack his things and get back to Servis.

He unlocks his room and starts packing, pushing whatever he finds into a bag. He doesn’t have much, thankfully, two spare robes, a bunch of potions and herbs, and some personal items. The unusual stillness and silence of this place makes him anxious in a way he can’t explain. _The whole world is going mad_ , he thinks with a bitter smile.

“It’s a pity you’re leaving us, Tristan. We could always use a good healer like you.”

Tristan jerks his head to look at a woman standing at the door. He vaguely remembers meeting her before, though her name remains a mystery. He’s never been good with names.

“My little vacation is over, time to go back home. I’ll visit when I’m back in Vyrantium.”

She smirks. She’s muscular, and surely knows how to use a dagger she has by her belt. She’s one of the Red Unicorn’s employees, has the tattoo on her right biceps, but she’s someone like a bodyguard. While the prostitutes prefer simple robes, she’s wearing tight leather trousers and a vest, unbuttoned to leave little room for imagination. Tristan is half sure that she wears such revealing clothes on purpose, to show off the scars on her body, and she has quite a lot of them.

_You could get it all healed in no time_ , he muses idly, as his eyes focus on a particularly nasty scar on her shoulder.

“The word on the street is,” she says, glancing around the room; it seems like she’s talking more to himself than to Tristan, “the Archon’s men are on the streets looking for the Venatori. That got me thinking, but the cult is long dead and gone. You remember how Radonis ordered to publically execute every single one he could find in the Imperium, right? A quick way of dealing with political opponents. Lots of them went south with their _god_ or whatever, and died there. So why hunt them now?”

He shrugs. “Radonis really needs to find a new hobby.”

“Vyrantium’s a big city but the secrets don’t last for long here, Tristan. Rumour has it the Archon’s men already caught some poor soul. You wouldn’t know anything about it?”

Tristan shakes his head. “Never cared that much about rumours.”

She turns her head to look at him and studies his face for a longer while. Then she laughs. “I forget I’m speaking to a magister’s son. You see, master Varro, simple minds like to gossip.”

He smiles at her; it’s one of his carefully chosen, fake smiles.

“Saw guards by the main entrance,” he mentions to change the topic. “Something happened?”

Her face darkens in an instant. She narrows her eyes, lips scowling. “I guess I may as well tell you since you’re going to find out anyway. It’s a big sensation, you could say,” she scoffs. “One of our girls was found in the docks, all beaten up, head smashed with a rock. Things got ugly, the boss isn’t happy. Soon the whole city will talk about it.”

“What’s the girl’s name?” Tristan asks, suddenly feeling numb.

“Elya. We had to notify the city guard but nobody knows a fucking thing.” She lets out a resigned sigh. “You wouldn’t know anything about it?”

_Elya_.

The words cut deep like a blade that stabs and twists, slicing him into pieces. Elya came to him so he would heal her bruises. He wanted to help her, do something to avoid seeing her beaten up by the bastard who visited her. But the plan shattered once Servis was attacked. Tristan had to be with him, had to make sure Servis was safe.

As a result he did nothing for that poor girl who was so terrified by her abuser. Something stirs in his chest, squeezes his heart with so much force the intense feeling nearly makes him paralysed.

But he’s trained himself well. Tristan doesn’t react, giving no indication about what’s happening in his mind, staring the woman in the eyes.

“Elya?,” he repeats the name as if it meant nothing to him, and shakes his head. “I remember her, but we barely spoke.”

_Lying is easy. Lying is what I do._

 

* * *

 

His whole left arm trembles so suddenly he nearly spills wine on his clothes. Embarrassment and anger battle in his mind; it’s hard to say which one wins.

Servis stills his hand, and takes a deep breath. To say things are more difficult now that he has to do everything with his left hand would be an understatement. Yet he stubbornly refuses when Tristan asks him about prosthetics. He’s seen them, fancy golden limbs fuelled by one’s magic. If he had one, it would be easier to… to do everything.

It would be easy to forget, one day. He won’t allow himself to forget, not now, not ever.

Servis takes a sip from his cup, wine leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He’s standing by the door leading to the garden, enjoying what’s left of the afternoon sun, and looking at watching Sorren train. The elf is furiously attacking one of the pieces of wood left from the pyre. Everyone has different ways of dealing with grief.

“Young master,” Posca says, appearing by his side. Servis never noticed it until now, but the old servant has a way of moving around quietly and subtly like he was a ghost. “A guest has arrived.”

Servis shoots him a puzzled look. He didn’t invite anyone.

“It’s magister Erimond, young master,” Posca explains somewhat worried. “Do you know why he’s here?”

Servis lets out a sigh. “I guess we’re about to find out.”

He follows Posca back inside. Erimond stands right in the middle of the main room as if he was purposely waiting for someone to pay attention to him. He’s accompanied by an elven slave in a grey tunic and a leather collar, carrying his staff for him. The slave doesn’t move when Servis walks in, his eyes fixed on the floor, head obediently bowed. He seems more like a lifelike statue than an actual person. His master, on the other hand, moves a little _too_ much. Seeing Servis he almost jumps, then he stares at the stump that was once Servis’ right hand, and shakes his head.

“So it _is_ true!” he gasps, his shocked face almost comical. “All those rumours about the Archon’s men looking for the Venatori. Did you know how terrified I was?! I expected them to appear at my door any moment. And they got _you_!”

Posca glances at Servis with a question in his eyes, ready to sacrifice his reputation to protect his master. Servis shakes his head.

“They sure did,” he says, resigned, and points at his right arm. “Is there anything else you wish to know, magister Erimond? I assure you the Archon’s men won’t come looking for you, so you may rest easy.”

“What about Calpernia? It’s her they wanted to get, isn’t it? I told her Radonis will find out eventually! Where is she? Was she captured?”

Servis massages the bridge of his nose. He can feel a headache approaching.

Erimond continues, getting louder with every word. “I demand to see her!”

Servis scowls. “You may demand nothing. You are an uninvited guest in my house. Why did you come here, magister Erimond? Be quick about it, recent events made me a little bit impatient, as you may imagine.”

Erimond frowns, offended. “We’re in this together, aren’t we? My estate in Minrathous is _technically_ yours now. I came to remind you that I need to pack all my belongings first before you decide to move in.”

“I advise you better hurry up with packing. I’m leaving for the capital tomorrow.”

“You can’t be serious! Going to Minrathous just after, _uh_ , all that,” he waves his hand vaguely. “Is Calpernia going with you? _Where_ is she?”

“Don’t be so worried about her. All I can say is that we’ll all meet in Minrathous.”

Erimond narrows his eyes at Servis, clearly dissatisfied with the answer. “Well then, I suppose we will.” He turns on the spot, gestures at the elf who instantly runs ahead to open the door for his master. “Tell Lady Calpernia I’m deeply saddened I couldn’t talk to her. Goodbye, Servis, and let’s hope you won’t be missing any more limbs when we meet again.”

_What a charming man_ , Servis thinks, watching the magister leave. It’s nearly impossible to think that he once considered Livius Erimond a man of worth. Now he perfectly understands why Calpernia detests him so much.

His eyes move back to Posca who seems even more irritated than Servis feels.

“There’s one more thing I need to take care of before I leave for the capital,” he says, and puts his now empty cup on a nearby table. “Come with me.”

Posca follows him upstairs to his bedroom. Thankfully the old servant doesn’t comment on the mess, various pieces of clothing tossed carelessly on the floor, books scattered everywhere. As much as he likes traveling, Servis hates packing, and Posca knows it all too well.

A wide wooden desk standing by the window is the only piece of furniture that’s not covered in various things. Servis takes a parchment from the desk, checks if the ink is already dry before handing it to Posca.

“Here, take it. I should’ve done this long time ago.”

The old man’s eyes scan the text, with every word the worry on his face seems to deepen. His hands begin to shake. He doesn’t speak, reading it again and again, as if not quite believing in what he sees.

“Tristan wrote it down for me, I still had to sign it. Hope my signature is legible enough. It’s like my left hand doesn’t even know how to hold a pen.” Servis attempts to smile; it feels more like a spasm. “But the message is clear. You’re a free man now.”

Posca’s face changes as the realisation washes over him.

“I leave the house to you,” Servis continues. “For your service you’ll be paid a reasonable sum of money. Though I’m open to suggestions, if you think you deserve more. I trust you with paying everyone else for their service as well. I’m not big on speeches, you already know that, so could you please tell them that I included them in the document as well? They are as free as you are now, they may leave if they want.”

There’s nothing even close to happiness in Posca’s eyes, only worry, and Servis recalls the day when Calpernia arrived in this house. She asked the servant if he wanted freedom, and he refused. _Is the prospect of living your own life so terrifying?_

Tevinter law is old, cruel to those who dare to break it. If anything happens while Servis is in Minrathous, no other person will be punished for his actions, only him.

“If anyone has any objections,” Servis continues, ignoring a pang of concern, “or wants to force you to do something, show them this document. A free man doesn’t obey anyone’s orders. Just in case I’m leaving the communication crystal for you, so you can contact me if anything happens. Of course, if you’d rather leave, then…”

“No,” Posca hastily replies, forcing calm into his voice. “I want to stay here where I belong.”

“You can do whatever you want. I have one final request.”

“Yes, young master?”

Servis winces. “Let’s make it two. You need to stop calling me that. If my father asks, then… Well, tell him whatever you want. If he has any objections, do remind him that the estate belongs to me, and you and everyone else who stays work for _me_ , not for him.”

“Thank you,” Posca manages to say, clutching the parchment in his hands.

“And one more thing. Take it off. You don’t have to wear it anymore,” Servis says, pointing at the plate the old man’s wearing on his chest like a shield.

Posca stares at the plate like he never realised it’s there. He weighs it in his hand for a moment before taking it off. When their eyes meet, his gaze is no longer filled with worry, but with gratitude instead.

_Calpernia was right. Every smallest gesture makes a difference,_ Servis thinks, then smiles, and this time it’s genuine.

 

* * *

 

He hesitates for a split second, enough to still his raised hand. He stares at the door, uncertain if he should…

_To the Void with it_ , Samson swears in his thoughts and knocks on Calpernia’s door.

There’s no answer, so he tries again, feeling more like a fool with each passing second. Then her muffled voice tells him to come in, so he pushes the door open and steps inside. One quick glance tells him that the room he was given is more or less the same. Maybe Servis likes having people over, that’s why there are so many guestrooms in the estate. Or perhaps every Tevinter house looks like this, how would he know.

His eyes then find Calpernia who’s sitting on the bed. The short grey tunic she had when she came back is gone, replaced by a brown blouse and leggings. What’s strikes him most is that she has her hair loose. Seeing how she always wears her hair in two tight buns, he never realised just how _long_ her hair is. She has a hairbrush in her hand,  and continues what he clearly interrupted. For a moment he watches her hands, transfixed.

“Do you wish to talk about something?” Calpernia prompts. She looks tired, lips pressed into a thin line. It doesn’t seem that she’s been harmed in any way, yet there’s something in her eyes that makes him uneasy.

Not to mention that he can’t sense any magic in the air. It’s always there, surrounding her, letting him know he’s in a presence of a powerful mage. After being a templar for so many years he can recognise the peculiar sensation of magical powers almost instantly. It’s like a tingling somewhere in the back of his mind. Sometimes there’s a hint of smell, too; something like dried leaves of elemental magic, heavy smell of sulphur or iron of blood magic.

He can’t sense anything right now, there’s no magic present here. Just like when Servis returned and confessed he was attacked by the so–called Imperial templars that not only used Silence on him, but also magebane.

Calpernia said no such thing. _Why would you lie about it?_

A stupid old templar feeling sorry for a mage. Samson resists the urge to laugh. Wherever that hag Meredith ended up after death, she must be laughing at him now.

Samson shifts in place, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. “Yes, I do, in fact, want to talk about something. Whoever attacked you… They took your magic, didn’t they?”

She studies his face for a longer while before she slowly nods.

“Well, is it back yet? And don’t give me that _I’m fine_ crap. Unlike Servis and his pretty boy, it’s not so easy to fool me.”

She narrows her eyes at him in a way he’s seen million times before, and there’s a flash of anger in her gaze as she regards him in silence.

“It is not,” comes her brief reply.

“Templar powers doesn’t have a permanent effect. It’ll come back,” he says, hoping his voice sounds reassuring. They had almost the exact same conversation back in Cumberland, but there certainly is a difference between being attacked by a former templar hungry for lyrium, and a trained professional supposedly employed by the Archon himself.

“Did you come here only to tell me what I already know?” she hisses, and there it is, the kind of irritation present in her voice almost every time they speak.

But this time Calpernia uses it as a shield to mask her true feelings. If she doesn’t want to admit how hurt and tired she is, she doesn’t have too. It’s enough that he saw her staring at the burning pyre they built in the garden.

“Despite everything that happened, we’re still going to Minrathous,” he changes the topic. It’s a fact. Other people would abandon their goals and run away, not Calpernia, however. “So, what’s the plan?”

“Are you sure you want to come?”

Samson scoffs. “How many times are you going to ask me this question? Yes, I’m sure. Though it looks Servis and his _friend_ would rather see me leave them alone.”

“Then I imagine they’re happy that we will travel separately. They, along with Talia and Sorren, are taking a ship to Minrathous. It’s the fastest and safest way to get to the capitol from here. You and I will travel near the coastline, stay away from the Imperial Highway. Servis knows a mounts merchant who can get us a pair of Taslin Striders for a reasonable price.”

Samson’s eyebrows shoot up. “Just the two of us?”

His poor attempt at a joke is ignored completely as Calpernia flatly states, “A bigger group of people is easier to track down. Nobody will question two magisters, whereas we both aren’t protected by Tevinter law in any way. It’s more convenient if we split.”

He nods in understanding. Of course she has it all figured out. _Whatever you want to do, count me in._

She gets back to brushing her long hair, and he considers leaving. Yet there’s still one more thing that needs saying.

“Calpernia?”

She turns her head to look at him, and their eyes meet. There’s something… fragile about her.

“Don’t blame yourself for their deaths, it’s not your fault.”

She will remember their names, and their deaths will either fuel her need for revenge or break her. But Calpernia’s not a person who breaks easily, so he’s only mildly worried about it.

She won’t forget them, just like he will never forget the Red Templar who fought by his side, and died when they all served a false god.

Calpernia opens her lips, takes a breath, perhaps to scold him, like she usually does. _I shouldn’t but…,_ he stops, uncertain how to finish his thought. Yet another thought he’s too afraid to finish that he may add to an already existing pile of doubts.

Before Calpernia speaks, she shivers as if something scared her, the hairbrush falls on the bed. She regards her hands with a surprised look on her face, and a heartbeat later Samson feels it, too. It’s like a warm gust of wind, something that’s barely there, yet he can sense it.

Calpernia bites down on her lower lip, hard, to keep herself calm and focused, and raises her hand. She gazes at small flames that appear and hover millimetres above her fingertips. There’s so much pure joy and bliss in her eyes that he can’t look away, wishing he could capture this moment.

It’s just a convenient coincidence that Calpernia’s magic returned right now, and yet…

_Isn’t everything just a coincidence?_ , Samson briefly wonders.

“Told you,” he chuckles. “There’s your magic.”

When Calpernia looks at him, he can’t quite understand the expression on her face. He watches the flames dancing on her fingertips, the sight gives him some sort of comfort he didn’t even realise he needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N2: I struggled to put all this together, but I hope this chapter provides at least some sort of conclusion.  
> As I mentioned before, the *whole* story isn’t over yet, and the next fic will pick up right after this one. I’m not sure when the first chapter will be out, though. Deadline for the Wintersend is getting closer, so I need to focus on the fic exchange first.  
> Thank you for sticking with this story for so long!


	30. post scriptum

[ ](http://imgur.com/3w50oko)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fanart doesn't have anything to do with the story or what I want to say here, to be honest, but I wanted to include it here, so it's not just my pointless whining.
> 
> This story won't have a continuation. I'm leaving the fandom, and I'm done with writing fanfiction, drawing fanarts, and everything else. I finally realised that it's time I stop embarrasing myself and waste other people's time. I wondered if I should write this message, but I guess it's better just to say it.  
> Let's be real for a minute here, if I started another fic, I would probably never finish it. Or shoud I say - it would turn out to be completely dissapointing. The *content* I create isn't good, never will be, and I'm just tired of.... I don't know, everything, basically.
> 
> Sorry.


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